Miscellaneous
by Chapin CSI
Summary: Gil & Greg. Slash. Unrelated short stories. Romance, drama, humor. NEW: Forensic Cupid.Romance. Spoiler: Kiss, kiss, bye, bye. Doc Robbins rarely pried into people's private lives, but this was Grissom, a man he considered his friend.
1. MISCELLANEOUS an explanation

Miscellaneous: This is an archive of short stories –too short to stand on their own- and they're all G/G. I decided to write down any little scene that popped into my head, instead of waiting for it to grow into a complete story. I just want to exploit this ship while it lasts.

There'll be PWP, romance, drama, humor. Each story will be independent from the others.

The stories so far…

SIX YEARS (Pre slash) They met six years ago. One of them never forgot that encounter…

BUNDLE OF JOY (ROMANCE) Gil & Greg decide to adopt

SOUP (ROMANCE, HUMOR) Greg brags about having more experience than Gil

ROMANCING THE CLICHÉ (ROMANCE) Plenty of clichés

DISTRACTED (ROMANCE) The guys watch Grey's Anatomy. BTW, I hated GA at the time and I hate it more now.

CAUGHT (ROMANCE, ROMANCE) Just how many people are having fun at the lab?

THE CALL (ROMANCE) Gil gets an unexpected call.

CRUSHED (ROMANCE) Greg has a crush on an actor and Gil's jealous…

TURMOIL (ROMANCE, DRAMA) Gil has trouble dealing with his new relationship

JUST ANOTHER BOOK (ROMANCE) Greg discovers the source of Grissom's sex techniques…

A FLUFFY MOMENT, (ROMANCE) Gil comforts Greg after 'Fannysmacking"

SIXTY (ROMANCE) Gil worries about being older than Greg

BUNDLE OF TROUBLE (ROMANCE) a prequel to BUNDLE OF JOY

PEACHES AND COFFEE (ROMANCE, HUMOR) Greg's oddly enthusiastic about peaches, and Nick explains why. Note: this story was inspired by a comment Sylvester Stallone's wife made about a part of his anatomy.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON (ROMANCE) sequel to BUNDLE OF TROUBLE

HEARTBROKEN (DRAMA) Warning: Greg's in love with Warrick in this story

GIL'S SECRET parts one and two (ROMANCE, HUMOR) Gil's going to a party, and Greg's not invited…

A DISTINGUISHED MAN: Romance, humor. Greg's new relationship as seen through the eyes of a favorite aunt.

LOSER: Romance. The guys want to go on vacation. They just can't agree where.

DOUBTS: Grissom pops up a question.


	2. SIX YEARS

SIX YEARS

Pre slash.

The story: Gil and Greg met during a convention. One of them never forgot that first encounter, (but who? It's up to you to decide)

Spoiler: In Precious Metal, Gil and Greg talk about being weird.

* * *

I lift the yellow tape and enter the secured area. I nod at the cops, I nod at Brass, and then I nod at _him_. We mutter a casual greeting - "Hey, Greg," and "Hey, Grissom," and then we set to work.

It's just like any other night.

Except that it isn't.

Not to me, anyway.

I don't say anything, but after half an hour working side by side, he asks me if I have something in my mind. He says I seem distracted.

"It's nothing," I say, shrugging evasively.

He's right, though; I am distracted.

Not that I'll ever admit it. It wouldn't do for me to say something like, "Yes, I'm distracted; all day I've been thinking of the same thing -the day you and me met." Or "Did you know that we met exactly six years ago today?"

I wonder what his reaction would be.

But instead of trying to find out, I turn away and focus on my work.

I can't help it, though. I keep thinking of that day. I wonder if he still remembers…

Or if he remembers it the way I do.

We met six years ago, indeed. Not in Las Vegas; we met in San Diego, at a Forensic Sciences Association Convention –a big, noisy affair that had more to do with politics than science. The kind of convention that one ends up attending only because it looks good in a resume.

Still, it's politics that help us keep our jobs, after all.

I spent the three-day-weekend going from conference to conference, meeting old acquaintances and college pals, and piling booklets from manufacturers.

There were really no surprises.

Not until the last day, that is.

The closing ceremonies loomed ahead and I was determined to skip them altogether, only to see my plans thwarted by one of the organizers. The man announced that there was something important he needed to discuss with me, and that he'd look me up at the party. There was no way for me to say no to that.

I remember how desperate people looked at the party that night. It seemed that their only goal was to get laid one last time before leaving San Diego.

I kept my distance. My last significant relationship had ended badly a couple of years before, and I wasn't interested in repeating the story any time soon. And since casual sex didn't appeal to me either, I ended up alone, nursing a beer and eyeing a photo display from the Pathology conferences. It was interesting and informative, but seeing picture after picture of gunshot wounds and diseased tissues somehow put me in the mood for food, and this forced me to go back to the party.

I was examining the buffet spread, when a voice caught my attention.

No; not just the voice, but the tone and the words themselves; whoever this man was, he definitely knew what he was talking about.

And his enthusiasm was contagious.

Forgetting all about the food, I turned and looked around, only to discover that I wasn't the only one doing so. Other party dwellers were already gravitating towards my mystery man, and all of them seemed as mesmerized as I was.

One look at him, and I realized words weren't the only reason people were getting close to him. He was extremely easy on the eyes, too.

He was handsome, yet what impressed me the most was the fact that despite being extremely knowledgeable, this guy didn't come across as pompous. He didn't even seem aware that he had an audience.

I stood in a corner, watching him. I didn't do anything to draw his attention –I didn't even move- and yet, somehow he noticed me. He glanced in my direction once and then he glanced away… only to look back again. This time our gazes met, and for a couple of seconds it seemed that we were entirely alone in the room.

I was becoming infatuated with a guy I knew nothing about, and the realization was enough to make me look away. It was too dangerous. It was out of character, too, and so I discreetly stepped away.

I went back to the buffet area, and tried to drown the sound of _his_ voice by paying attention to other people's conversations.

All around me, pick-up lines were being uttered with various degrees of success, and I found myself following the ensuing conversations. It was entertaining, until I heard someone say that only losers slept in their own beds during a convention.

The words made me pause. I'd slept in my own bed –did that really make me a loser? Probably.

Oh, well. I turned my attention back on the food. The beef salad that I'd heaped on my plate was heavy on onions, so I started picking slices and setting them on the side. I was determined not to eavesdrop anymore, but it was impossible not to hear people's conversations. At one point someone standing close to me uttered what had to be the worst pick-up line I'd ever heard, "_Did you know that onions were used during the Civil War to prevent Scurvy?"_

I looked up, hoping to see the intended party's reaction... only to realize that the line had been intended for _me_.

_He_ was standing just a couple of feet away, looking at me and smiling faintly.

He had ditched his entourage -and that was good.

He was looking expectantly at me –and that was bad.

I didn't know what to say. I mean, come on; who would use _onions_ to start up a conversation? It seemed clumsy, to me.

And yet, who was I to criticize? I was not exactly Mr. Smooth when it came to approaching strangers. I always said the first thing that popped into my head -sometimes with disastrous results- and all because my nervousness got the best of me.

Surely _this_ guy would not have that problem –or would he?

I looked at him –really looked at him- and suddenly, it dawned on me that he _was_ nervous, and that he had simply blurted out the first thing that occurred to him.

He was as clumsy as I would have been if I had had the guts to approach him first. Maybe he just didn't do this often –approach someone, that is; maybe he was like me?

This thought gave me the encouragement I needed to speak.

I cleared my throat.

"I thought Scurvy only struck men at sea." I replied, happy to show him that I knew stuff, too. "And they discovered that lemon juice was an effective cure."

There was a gleam of admiration in his eyes as I said this.

"That's true," he nodded, "But soldiers didn't always have access to fresh produce." He took a step closer, "There was a saying, at the time," he said, "Don't send your sweetheart a letter; send him an onion."

This was the weirdest conversation I'd ever held, but I liked it.

"Well," I said, "I already met my vitamin C requirements today," I said, pushing the last onion slice away, "And besides…" I paused. I gulped and then I bravely added, "I want to keep my breath fresh. One never knows-"

He smiled.

And then we spoke at the same time.

"Gil."

"Greg."

And we added at the same time. "Nice to meet you."

We didn't shake hands. I don't know about him, but I was glad that he didn't offer me his hand, because mine was shaking. I had to hold on to my plate so he wouldn't notice.

I was nervous, but fortunately, I wasn't tongue-tied. We seemed to have a lot to talk about.

We flirted. There's no other word for it. We used words as a seductive tool.

We interjected some words about the convention but in general terms, without daring to ask personal questions. It seemed that every time we got too close to ask one, we backed off.

But physically, it was another story. The more we talked, the closer we got, until there was only a narrow space between us. Eventually, we got close enough to touch… or to ask a personal question.

Asking him about his specialty seemed safe enough, and I was about to ask, when someone approached us -Assistant Director Sanchez, the man who had asked me to stay.

He seemed glad to see us together.

"Ah, Grissom, Sanders; I see you've already met. Good." He gently steered us to a more quiet part of the room, "Gil Grissom is a senior supervisor in Las Vegas, Sanders." he said, and then he turned, "Greg Sanders works in New York, but he requested a transfer. He's in my short list of candidates to fill vacancies in Nevada and California." he said, "He could end up in your lab soon, Gil."

Stunned into silence, all we could do was look at each other.

Recognition dawned on both of us. _I_ had seen his picture before; I couldn't believe I hadn't made the connection sooner.

Things changed, then. We were still standing close, but it felt like an abysm had opened at our feet; not wide -just too damn deep for us to cross.

A boss and his subordinate? No way.

We smiled faintly, then. Ruefully.

I looked at him, and I truly believed that I could read his thoughts just as if had spoken aloud, '_Boy, that was close. At least nothing happened,' _and '_At least neither one of us said anything.' _

We shook hands under the benevolent smile of AD Sanchez. We spoke-

"Nice meeting you, Sanders."

"Nice meeting you too, Grissom."

And that was that.

----------

I like it when we work together, side by side.

We communicate well.

There are times when he are so attuned to each other that we seem to know what the other is thinking, without having to say a single word.

And there are times when we will talk –and talk- just for the sheer pleasure of surprising the other with a choice morsel of information, or a quote.

We're different, and yet, there are similarities between us. There's the love of words that manifests itself in completely different ways, for instance; or the shyness that gets the better of us now and then. Or the quirky behavior that has earned us a label of weird at one time or another.

We still flirt, now and then. We still use words to mesmerize each other…

But the abysm is still there.

Funny. In all these years we've worked together, we've never mentioned the convention.

We never will.

And this is the thought that stays with me the rest of the night.

I realize that it really doesn't matter whether he remembers that night, or whether he remembers it the way I do; it doesn't matter whether any of us remembers anything -

Because we'll always pretend that we don't.

-------

THE END. Read the sequel: Stranded


	3. BUNDLE OF JOY

BUNDLE OF JOY

Slash

Gil & Greg take their relationship a step further…

* * *

Gil Grissom glanced at his watch and then he looked outside. There was no sign of Greg yet.

He tapped his fingers on the dashboard. He was becoming impatient. He disliked staying in a car, waiting for something to happen.

He was nervous, too. His life was about to change –yet again- and he had contradictory feelings about it. He was excited about this new experience, but he dreaded it at the same time.

Greg had tried to reassure him, but Grissom was aware of his own limitations. He knew everything about raising ants and spiders and all kinds of icky worms, but this... this was completely different.

He'd try to prepare himself for the happy event, in the only way he knew: By reading everybook and article that he could get his hands on.Unfortunately,all he'd managed so far was to feel more inadequate than ever.

Grissom took a deep breath andlooked outside;he almost glanced at his watch again, but he forced himself not to. He shook his head; what he needed was a distraction, something to take his mind away if only for a little while.

He looked around, but he couldn't find anything; the radio was broken, and Greg kept no reading material in his car –nothing, except for a few fan magazines, and Grissom hated those.

Hoping to find something more challenging to read, Grissom opened the glove compartment, only to close it abruptly, so the mountain of food wrappers and Styrofoam containers that Greg had accumulated didn't spill over.

Grissom shook his head. Greg was a neat man, but there were two areas of his life that he had no control over: The fridge and the glove compartment.

Thinking of Greg made him glance outside yet again. Gil didn't like this neighborhood. He'd been there twice before and on both occasions his van had been vandalized despite the presence of the police. Greg had argued that it was precisely the police's presence that had caused all the trouble. In any case, they had decided to bring Greg's car this time. It was less conspicuous.

Fortunately, things were quiet tonight. The streets were almost deserted.

Grissom was beginning to worry, nonetheless. Greg should have returned a long time ago. "_I'll be back in ten,"_ he'd said before walking into the alley with Mrs. Tremmell, the woman who had contacted them in the first place.

That was yet another thing that Gil didn't like. The sneakiness. They should have been able to park in front of Mrs. Tremmell's house and go inside together. They were not doing anything illegal, after all. But Greg had explained the need to do things quietly, and Grissom had understood at first. Now he wasn't so sure.

His thoughts were interrupted by someone tapping on his window. A middle-aged woman was smiling tentatively at him. It was Mrs. Tremmell.

Grissom lowered his window.

"Mr. Grissom," she said, "They're coming in a minute. I... I just wanted to talk to you, alone."

Grissom opened the door and got out.

"I'm sorry we made you wait here," she said, "We're only trying to make it easier on the mother. She's been through this before, you see, and every time she hears the sound of a car parking in front of the house… Well... she knows what it means."

Grissom didn't know what to say.

"I really wanted to keep them," Mrs. Tremmell, "But I can't take care of them anymore; and even if I could, my husband wouldn't let me. Not that I blame him," she said quickly, "This wasn't supposed to happen, in the first place; it was an accident. I should have done something to prevent it, but..."

She faltered a little, and Grissom looked down. Emotional displays were sometimes embarrassing to him.

"… My husband told me I could keep only one," Mrs. Tremmell added, "And I had to decide, and, well… It's just like he's always said: Girls are too much trouble in the long run -" she looked up sharply, as if to gauge the effect of her words on him.

Grissom's expression was guarded. He would not judge her.

She took a deep breath and then she looked earnestly at him, "You'll take care of her, won't you?"

"We will." He said gently.

"Watch over her-"

"Of course."

"See that she grows in the best of health-"

Grissom nodded, but the truth was, he still didn't know if he could really bear the responsibility.

"Mr. Sanders was so understanding when I told him-" Mrs. Tremmell said, interrupting his thoughts.

Ah, yes. And once she told him, Greg set his mind and his heart on the adoption. Gil put up a few objections, but didn't have the heart to say no -not even when Greg pointed out that Gil was the one who had all that available space in his home.

"I'm sure you're be good to her," Mrs. Tremmell said, then. "You're a gentle man, I can tell."

Gil looked down.

"I'll try to do my best." He said. "But I've never done anything like this, and -"

"And you're afraid."

Grissom nodded reluctantly.

She smiled and patted his arm.

"Me, I'm more afraid of people who are too sure of themselves," she said knowingly.

Just then, Greg reappeared. He was carrying a small bundle wrapped in a pink blanket, and he was smiling from ear to ear.

He walked up to Mrs. Tremmell and hugged her with his free arm.

"Don't worry, Marcy." He said good-naturedly, "We'll take care of her."

"Thank you..." she said, "Thank you..."

Tears were rolling down her cheeks as she walked away.

Smiling mischievously, Greg turned to Grissom.

"You wanna hold her?" he asked.

"Not yet." Gil muttered evasively.

"Well, I'm driving." Greg said, offering the bundle to Grissom, forcing him to take it. "Be gentle." He admonished, before opening the passenger door for him.

Grissom carefully got in and held the bundle a little away from him.

Greg closed the door and then he walked to the driver's side.

He looked at Grissom before getting in.

"You look good, _daddy_."

"Daddy?" Grissom repeated. The bundle shifted in his hands and Gil had to hold it closer to him.

"Is she awake?" Greg asked.

"I don't know," Grissom said. He lifted a corner of the blanket and peered underneath.

Brown eyes blinked and peered back.

"Well?" Greg asked.

"She's awake," Grissom whispered. He had expected her to start crying at the mere sight of him but she didn't. Instead, she only looked at him as if… As if she trusted him.

Without thinking, Gil reached and delicately touched one perfect ear.

She yawned.

Grissom would remember afterwards how he fell in love for the second time in his life.

"What about her name?" he asked, without looking up.

"We could call her Sam -" Greg said tentatively, "Petula -"

"_Petula_?"Grissom frowned.

"Hey, it was just a suggestion. If I leave it to you, you'll call her Ophelia or Climmenestra -"

"We'll call her Truddie," Gil said firmly.

"After Hamlet's mom, I suppose." Greg muttered to himself. "But I think it suits her," he added. He glanced at Grissom, "Are you happy, Gilbear?"

Gil met his gaze.

"Yes." He said honestly. "I am happy."

Greg smiled and then he turned on the ignition. They needed to take Truddie to her new home.

Gil carefully put the covers back. Puppies needed their sleep after all.

THE END

Ah, what can I say? I'm sappy when it comes to dogs.


	4. SOUP

SOUP

Humor. A yucky story. Gil can't believe that Greg has more experience than him…

SPOILERS: Bodies in Motion (thanks for the info, Arynn!) In this episode Greg gets drenched in some liquid human remains. He should have used a face shield.

In Crate 'n Burial, Gil reveals that he never wears scented aftershave.

* * *

Greg wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror and then he studied his reflection. 

He had some serious whiskers to remove.

Yawning loudly, he picked up his new bottle of shaving cream and squeezed some foam on his palm. He was glad he'd got one with a minty formula. Hopefully, it would give him a much-needed jolt.

Greg was still sleepy.

He had barely slept five hours in the last two days –and only because he was able to take naps in the back of his car. But then, everybody at the lab was swamped with work. The only reason he'd been allowed to come home for some rest was because he had a court appearance later that morning.

Two hours of sleep were just not enough...

Not that he'd used those two hours to rest. Not with Gil unexpectedly showing up.

And speaking of the devil...

Gil entered the bathroom then.

"Morning," Greg greeted.

"Mrnfn," Grissom muttered, walking past him seemingly without opening his eyes.

Greg smiled to himself. It looked like Gil would have to stay a couple of minutes under the cold spray before being able to utter a single coherent word.

The poor man was exhausted, too.

* * *

When Gil stepped out of the shower a few minutes later, he had a towel wrapped around his waist and another around his neck, and his eyes were open and alert. 

"Hey, Greg." he greeted.

"Good morning." Greg said, squeezing against the sink so Grissom could walk past him. Grissom did, but first he took a moment to press a kiss on Greg's neck.

Greg smiled. Gil was the most reserved person he knew, but somehow he always found unexpected ways to show his affection.

Gil was about to reach the door when he stopped and turned. He took a tentative whiff at Greg.

"Do I smell mint?" he asked.

Greg nodded.

"It's from the shaving cream," he explained, "Why?" he asked when he noticed Gil's frown, "Is it too strong?"

"Well... Yeah."

"Don't tell me you're allergic to mint."

"I'm not." Gil said, "I'm just not a big fan of scents." he said, "At least, not at the workplace." He added pointedly.

"Oh. I get it." Greg said, "Strong scents interfere with your ability to ID smells at a crime scene-"

"Exactly." He nodded, "But, since you're going to court, then it's ok."

"So that's why you wear only scentless stuff." Greg said.

Gil nodded, and then he silently watched as Greg shaved the few whiskers that grew over his lip.

"You, on the other hand, are always surrounded by scents," Gil remarked, "Hair gel, chewing gum, aftershave-"

"I thought you liked my aftershave," Greg interrupted.

Gil scoffed softly. He did like it.

"Talking about scents…" he said, "Sara told me about that little accident you had today."

Greg froze, the razor stopping half-way down his cheek.

He glanced at Grissom's reflection on the mirror.

"She rattled me out, huh?" he glared.

"It wasn't like that," Grissom said, "She was so impressed by the way you reacted, that she just had to tell me. According to her, you acted like a pro," he said, and then he gave Greg a stern look, "Although a pro would have used a face shield," he added.

"I know," Greg muttered evasively. He'd been careless and he had paid for it by getting drenched in human waste. He just hadn't planned on telling Gil about it.

"Sara says that you practically licked the liquid off your face."

Greg grimaced.

"Nah, I didn't lick it-"

"But you didn't puke, either," Grissom pointed out, "Anybody else would have. Sara was really impressed, and so am I." He leant on the doorway and watched Greg for a while, "You know, that's something I've noticed about you," Gil mused aloud, "Foul smells rarely get to you."

Greg didn't comment; he had started to shave a spot that required all his attention.

"Frankly," Gil said after a moment, "There were times when I thought there was something wrong with your sense of smell-"

"My sense of smell is fine." Greg said.

"I know it's fine," Gil nodded, "That's why I'm impressed by what happened today." He paused, "So, what's your secret?"

"Secret?"

"Do you put something in your nose or what?"

Greg smiled, but didn't answer.

"Greg?" Gil asked patiently, "Are you going to tell me what your secret is?"

"There's no secret." Greg said honestly, but he couldn't help adding, in a tone that was a bit too smug, "I've just had more experience in these matters, that's all."

"_More_ experience?" Gil repeated, "What does that mean?"

Greg smiled.

"Now, don't be jealous," he teased.

"I'm not jealous," Gil replied, "But how can you have more experience than me?"

"Well..." Greg hesitated, and then he shrugged dismissively. He loved to pique Gil's curiosity.

...But Grissom didn't always have the patience.

"Greg-" he said in a warning tone.

Greg chuckled.

"Look, it's no big deal," he admitted, "In fact, you'd know what I'm talking about if you cleaned up your fridge only twice a year like I do."

"What does that mean?"

"Gil, have you ever opened a Tupperware container that's held steamed broccoli for six months? Or have you ever opened a plastic bag that reads Salami but only holds a greasy muck inside?"

Gil looked blankly at him.

Greg sighed.

"I forgot that you clean up your fridge every week-" He said, shaking his head. "Look, my point is, once you get used to the smell of six-month-old broccoli... nothing else will faze you."

"Broccoli?" Gil repeated skeptically.

"You don't believe me?" Greg smiled, "Maybe I should prove it to you." He said, "There are several Tupperware containers in my fridge; I should have cleaned them a long time ago," he admitted, "But as you know, I'm a CSI now, and my job absorbs most of my time."

He glanced at Gil, "It's not just the fact that I've acquired more responsibilities," he said, "or that I happen to have a very demanding boss; lately I've also been taking care of a very demanding boyfriend, and-"

Gil narrowed his eyes.

"Greg-"

"Ok, fine," Greg said, cutting his explanation short, "Bottom line is, I've got everything from leftover soups to meats in my fridge. Some of that stuff is really old -" Greg turned to the mirror again, "If you give me a minute, we'll conduct a little experiment on scents."

Gil leant on the doorway again, but now he couldn't wait to start the experiment.

"Are you done?" he kept asking, but Greg was checking out his sideburns. He always shaved too much from one side and then he had to even them out.

Gil ran out of patience.

"I'm going to take a look-" He said.

"Wait," Greg said. "I'm just going to finish this side-"

But Gil was already padding away.

Greg stayed in the bathroom, but he could hear Gil's comments as he entered the kitchen and opened the fridge.

"Greg, you're a slob, you know that?" Gil called out, "When was the last time you cleaned up in here?" He paused, "So, Tupperware containers... Ah, here they are-"

By the noises coming from the kitchen, it was obvious that Gil was removing the containers one by one and putting them on the kitchen counter.

Greg leaned out of the door.

"Hey, Gil?" Greg said, "Wait for me before you open them, ok?"

But Gil was impatient now.

"What about starting with a green container?" He asked.

"Dark green or light green?"

"What's the difference?"

"A big one," Greg called out, "The dark green has broccoli soup and-"

"So?" Gil replied, "How bad can it be?"

And then, just as Greg opened his mouth to warn him against opening that container, there was the distinctive sound of a lid popping out, and then-

"OH, MY G-" groaned Gil, "THIS IS-"

And then there was a horrible sound that could only mean that Gil was losing his cookies, to put it nicely.

Greg closed his eyes.

"Oh, grasshopper," He whispered, "You still weren't ready for the dark green." He dropped his razor and grabbed a towel, "COMING TO THE RESCUE, GIL!" he called out, and then he bolted out of the bathroom

The End


	5. ROMANCING THE CLICHÉ

MISCELLANEOUS

A series of unconnected stories –all G & G slash.

First story:

ROMANCING THE CLICHÉ

Gil & Greg Slash. AU, ROMANCE

Greg meets his boss in the last place he expected.

* * *

Greg made his way to the bar. It wasn't easy; he had to dodge several dancing couples before he could make it.

"Hey, Gringo!" the bartender said amiably, "What would you like tonight?"

Greg placed his order and then he looked around. The place was filled to capacity, like every night.

People, Greg thought morosely. People everywhere. _Gringos_ dancing to exotic tunes –clumsily and out of step, most of them- gringos romancing the local girls, gringos drinking, gringos having a good time away from home-

Just another gringo himself, Greg was getting sick of this endless partying. Frankly, he was bored. He had come to Cancún with a bunch of friends in search of relaxation and –why not admit it?- a little romance as well; so far, he had failed on both counts.

It's not that he had not had fun –the chances of getting laid were numerous, after all- but each casual encounter had left him feeling lonelier than ever. As for relaxation… let's just say that partying all night and lying on the beach with a hangover the next day was definitely not what the doctor had ordered.

Greg looked down into the glass that the bartender set in front of him.

So far he had rejected every boy and girl who approached him, and soon his friends would pair off and depart, leaving him alone. The thought didn't bother him; maybe a little time alone would do him some good.

Unbeknownst to Greg, a man had been watching him for some time now. He'd noticed with amusement and more than a little interest how Greg's eyes followed some of the men at the party. Well, well, the man thought. This was interesting…

The stranger picked up his glass and made a beeline for the bar. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, he deliberately bumped into the young man.

"Sorry," Greg said, barely glancing up.

"Careful, kid." The man said.

Greg frowned. That voice… He would recognize it anywhere.

"Grissom?" he asked in surprise.

The man turned.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Whoa!" Greg exclaimed, "It's you!" and then he frowned, "What happened to your beard?"

For his boss was clean shaven. He was also wearing a colorful shirt and kaki cotton pants, and he looked just like another gringo at the resort.

Greg couldn't believe it.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

Grissom hesitated.

"Well, I…" he began. "I thought I'd come and-"

"That's great!" Greg approved, "Why didn't you say anything?" he asked but didn't wait for an answer, "Or were you afraid that telling us would ruin your image of the austere CSI Supervisor?"

Grissom opened his mouth but didn't immediately answer.

"You got me," he admitted at last. Then he glanced at the name tag pinned on Greg's shirt, "_Gregory_." He finished.

"Oh," Greg looked down at his tag and immediately took it off. He and his friends had worn them every night, hoping it would help them make friends more easily.

"I hate my name, to tell you the truth," Greg muttered, "I barely tolerate 'Greg'. Even 'Sanders' is better than _Gregory_." He added, and then he smiled at Grissom, "I can't believe it, you know? You're the last person I'd expect to find here. Are you having fun?"

Grissom shrugged, "I've tried." He said noncommittally.

"And?" Greg coaxed, "Any luck with the ladies so far?"

Grissom paused again. He took a sip of his whiskey and stared at Greg, gauging the possibilities.

There was a lot at stake here…

But what the hell.

"Actually," he said, and then he lowered his voice, "It's not the ladies I'm interested in." he explained.

Greg's eyes widened.

"What?" he asked.

Grissom smiled. "You heard me."

"But…" Greg hesitated, "But… you…?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Greg muttered, "Wow." He paused, thoughts crowding his mind. Would he…? Could he and Grissom…? Could it be possible…?

Confused, Greg picked up his cocktail and gulped half of it down. He didn't know what to do. There was a lot at stake here after all.

Grissom made it easier. He got a bit closer and spoke in a soft, insinuating tone.

"So, Sanders," He said, "What are _you_ interested in?"

* * *

Three days after that, Greg woke up in his boss' arms. He smiled faintly as he held those arms closer to his body. Gil's cheek felt raspy against his shoulder. Greg had asked Grissom to grow his beard back, and the older man had complied.

Greg smiled. Who would have thought that Grissom had it in him? Not just the sexual prowess, but the seduction techniques as well? They'd had a great time together; they had explored the island, they had swam in lonely beaches, and finally, they had spent some glorious times together in Grissom's deluxe suite.

_Mmmh_, Greg thought. _This is how a vacation should be…_

Sadly, said vacation was coming to an end. Grissom was leaving Cancún in a couple of days, and Greg was scheduled to return to the States in a week. The next time they met, it would be at the workplace.

Neither one of them had broached the subject. In an unspoken agreement, they had simply taken advantage of every moment they spent together, without sparing a thought for the future.

Greg closed his eyes and burrowed into Grissom's arms, determined to enjoy the few hours they had left.

* * *

But the days passed quickly, and soon Greg returned to work.

The first thing he did was to go to Grissom's office. Silently, he stood in the doorway, watching Grissom work. When the older man rose from his desk to get something from a bookcase, Greg took a deep breath and went in.

"Hi." he said in a soft tone.

"Mmmh?" Grissom turned, "Hey, Greg." He said casually, "You're tanned." He added.

Greg smiled warmly.

"Yes. I stayed another week, remember?"

Grissom didn't answer. He turned to look at the books again. There was a specific tome that he needed but couldn't find. He was wondering where else to look when, to his utter surprise, Greg approached from behind and whispered into his ear.

"Missed me?"

Grissom glanced over his shoulder.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"Did you miss me?" he repeated, still in the same silky tone.

"Not particularly," Grissom replied, taking a cautious step away from Greg, "Sofia gave us a hand while you were away."

"That's not what I meant," Greg said, still smiling and still using that soft, husky tone. "Did you miss _me_?"

Grissom frowned. He was honestly mystified by Greg's approach and for a moment he simply stared back at the young man.

Greg held his gaze until reality quickly dawned on him.

He shook his head in disappointment.

"So, this is it, huh?" Greg asked, "You're going to pretend that nothing happened?"

Not that he was that surprised -he knew it was too much to ask for a relationship. But he had hoped that Grissom would at least acknowledge what had happened between them.

Maybe he needed a reminder.

"We slept together, Grissom." he said slowly, "Or have you forgotten that?"

"Excuse me?" Grissom mumbled.

"We swam together, we went out for walks," Greg said, taking a step forward, "You said that meeting me in Cancun was the best thing that ever happened to you-"

Grissom gaped, but he quickly recovered.

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Greg said, rolling his eyes, "You could at least admit that we did what we did!"

"Greg, I don't-" Grissom was trying to make sense of Greg's words. "I don't know what you're talking about." he said, and then his eyes narrowed, "Did you use any drugs while you were away, Greg?" he asked suspiciously.

"Drugs?" Greg asked indignantly, "Drugs? Grissom, I can't believe this. If you want to pretend that nothing happened, then just say so. I can take it, ok?"

Grissom hesitated.

"Greg, do you honestly believe that _I_ would go to Cancun?"

"You were there!" Greg replied, "You left a week before I did, and-"

"Greg, I haven't left Las Vegas in the past two months." Grissom said patiently, " I've never been in Cancún-"

"But-"

"I don't even like beach resorts, in the first place." Grissom interrupted, "I can't imagine why you-" Grissom paused in mid-sentence. He frowned as a sense of Déjà Vu crept into his mind.

It had been years since anything like this had happened to him. He had almost forgotten-

"Oh, no." He muttered.

"What?" Greg asked angrily.

Grissom took a deep breath.

"I think I know what happened." He gulped, "You met Bill."

"Bill? Who's Bill?"

"My twin brother."

"Your _twin_ brother?" Greg repeated incredulously, and he stared at Grissom, hoping the man would burst into laughs and say something like, 'Gotcha!'. When Grissom didn't, Greg simply shook his head, "This is pathetic, Grissom." he sneered, "Do you really expect me to believe that you have an evil twin brother who pretends he's you just to sleep with your coworkers?"

"He's not evil, "Grissom replied tiredly, "He's just…" he shrugged. He didn't want to talk about Bill, "Greg, this is the only explanation I can give you."

"I have another explanation," Greg retorted, "You're a damn coward."

"Greg, you can ask anybody here: I didn't leave Las Vegas while you were away."

Greg stared a Grissom for a moment, and then he reached for Grissom's collar.

"There's a tiny spider tattooed near your right nipple," he said, "I saw it countless of times, Grissom," he added, and then he pulled Grissom's shirt open.

Greg gaped at what he saw –or rather, at what he didn't see. There was no tattoo, and Grissom's skin was pale under the clothes –only his face and his neck were tanned.

Horrified by the discovery, Greg took a step back.

"You have a twin brother," he said breathlessly. "Oh, hell," he added, almost to himself.

"His name's William," Grissom said.

"Oh, hell," Greg repeated, and in his mind he went back to the time he and Grissom's twin were together. Only now did he realize that the man had simply followed his lead when they talked about their jobs.

Actually, Greg had done most of the talking while they were together.

"You never mentioned him-"

"I have nothing to say about him," Grissom shrugged, "We rarely speak. He doesn't even live in the States. Mostly, he lives in the South of France. He's a writer." He looked at Greg, "I'm sorry." He said sincerely.

"It's not your fault." Greg said mechanically. "It's _my _fault." He admitted, "I thought he was you; I practically fed him the lines…" he shook his head as he remembered, "He didn't know who I was; he simply looked at my name tag. He called me _Gregory_-" he added ruefully.

"I'm sorry, Greg. If… if you need some time off," he offered.

"I'll be fine." Greg interrupted, not daring to look into Grissom's eyes, "Ok? Just pretend this never happened."

He left.

* * *

Grissom finished his shift, working methodically and efficiently.

It wasn't until he left his office that he finally cracked.

It happened in the parking lot, when he was about to enter his car. Suddenly, the memory of what had happened overwhelmed him.

"Damn," he whispered. "Damn, damn." He repeated, leaning on the car for support, "It could have been me," he whispered. "It _should_ have been me-"

"What did you just say?"

Grissom flushed. He hadn't realized that Greg had followed him.

The young man was smiling tentatively.

"Nothing." Grissom mumbled evasively.

Greg got closer.

"I heard what you said, Grissom. Unless it wasn't you but your evil twin Bill speaking." He lowered his voice, "You're right." He said quietly, "It should have been you. I wish it had been you." He added, and then he frowned, "Come to think of it, I thought it was you," he said. "You see what this means?"

"Yes." Grissom said tiredly, "But it can't be. It can never be."

"Why?"

"I'm your boss- You're so much younger-"

Greg was about to argue, when a sudden explosion interrupted him. Someone was shooting at them.

"Get down!" Grissom screamed, pushing Greg to the ground. Grissom himself wasn't quick enough though, and before he could crouch down he was hit by a bullet.

Greg immediately pulled him to a safe corner of the parking lot.

Grissom was bleeding badly, but he made an effort to speak.

"I… I… want you to… to… know…" he moaned, "That I… that I…"

"No, don't talk…" Greg whispered, "I know what you want to say."

"I… lo-lo..."

"You love me, right?"

"I… l-l-lo…"

"I get it," Greg interrupted desperately, "Just save your energy; the paramedics are coming-"

But Grissom was beyond help. After a few desperate attempts to complete his farewell phrase, he died.

Greg couldn't believe it.

"No, no... Nooooooo!" He screamed and screamed.

* * *

"No… no…" Greg mumbled in his sleep, and the sound of his own voice woke him up.

He sat up abruptly and looked around in confusion. He was in his own room, in his own bed.

"You ok?" a concerned voice called out.

Greg turned and sighed with relief when he saw Grissom lying there, beside him.

"Yeah," Greg said breathlessly, "I'm fine."

Grissom sat up.

"Did you have a nightmare?"

"Yeah," Greg nodded.

Grissom rubbed Greg's back for a moment.

"What was it about?" he asked.

"Well…" Greg hesitated. Now that he was wide awake, the dream didn't seem that terrifying. "You'll not gonna believe this." He said at last, "I dreamed that you had a twin brother."

Grissom's eyebrows rose.

"A twin brother?" he asked.

"Yeah." Greg his head, "Talk about clichés, huh?"

"Was it an _evil_ twin?" Grissom asked, smiling.

"Don't laugh," Greg warned, but then he smiled, "It sounds silly, I know," he admitted. "A twin brother, completely different from you…"

"How different?" Grissom asked, still smiling.

"Well…" he hesitated.

"Come on," Grissom coaxed, "Tell me about him."

"Ok," he said, "It all started when I went to Cancún-" he said, and then he recounted the entire dream. "So," he said when he was finished, "What do you think? Did you count the clichés?"

"It even ended with one," Grissom said, smiling amusedly. "A death-bed confession of love."

"Not to mention that heart-wrenching 'Noooo," Greg added self-deprecatingly.

They shared a laugh.

"But you know, the dream itself wasn't that bad." Greg said after a while, "It was kind of romantic, in a way…"

"Romantic?" Grissom repeated.

"Yeah." he shrugged, "In a twisted sort of way, I guess."

Grissom mused on this for a moment.

"Does the idea of meeting a different Grissom turns you on, Greg?" He asked.

"Well…"

"Because if it does, then maybe I should do something about this," He said, patting his own jaw. "Change it, so it fits your fantasies-"

"Aw, no." Greg said, "You don't have to do that. I like you just the way you are."

"That phrase is just another cliché, did you know that?"

"So?" he shrugged, "It's the truth."

Grissom smiled.

"Good," he said, "Let's go back to sleep then."

They laid down again and after a moment, Grissom pulled Greg into his arms.

"You know," Grissom whispered, "There's only a fitting way to end this: With a cliché. Repeat after me," he instructed, "Thank God it was only a dream."

Greg snickered and repeated the words.

"Good night," Grissom whispered, "Love you."

"I love you too, Bill." Greg muttered, burrowing into his lover's embrace. The last thing he was conscious of before falling asleep was the feel of Grissom's clean-shaven jaw against his back.

THE END

Thank you for reviewing!


	6. DISTRACTED

MISCELLANEOUS

Please take note that each chapter here is an independent story. I just thought they're too short to be published as single stories.

Distracted

Gil's negative comments about a TV show elicit some reactions from his coworkers.

G/G, W/C, N/S, B/A.

Slash, romance, humor.

Note:

I don't know the name of the DNA technician who replaced Mia, so I'm calling her Andrea.

* * *

Gil Grissom turned a page of his book. He casually glanced around the conference table and mused on how rare it was to see his coworkers sitting so quietly and attentively.

They were all there -Catherine, Nick, Warrick, Bobby, Sara, Archie, Hodges, Andrea, and Greg- because there had been a rare lull in the hectic pace of the night shift. But while Gil's idea of taking a break consisted in picking up a book to read, his coworkers had opted for watching some TV.

And by the way their eyes were riveted on the screen, it had to be a good show.

Filled with curiosity, Gil decided to watch for a while.

He was quiet until the commercial break.

"What is the name of this show?" he asked.

"Grey's Anatomy." A chorus of voices replied simultaneously.

"It's not very realistic," Grissom said.

"It's not a documentary, if that's what you mean." Sara retorted.

"Obviously," Grissom muttered. He _wished_ it were a documentary on medicine; a soap opera about doctors didn't appeal much to him.

"Don't you like the show, Gil?" Catherine asked.

"Do _you_ like it?" Grissom replied, glancing over his shoulder.

"It's not bad," she shrugged, "It's entertainment, pure and simple."

"It gives the wrong message," Grissom noted, turning his gaze back to the TV. "It makes it seem OK for people to have sex at the work place." he pointed out, "_Responsible _people do not do that." he stated.

Catherine and Warrick glanced at each other and shared a little smile of complicity.

Luckily for them, neither Grissom nor the rest of their coworkers noticed the exchange.

Grissom continued.

"When two coworkers start a relationship," He said, "They find it very difficult to work together in harmony again."

Sara and Nick rolled their eyes at the same time. They were proof positive that people could in fact, have a relationship and work together.

'_Poor Grissom,_' Nick thought, '_The guy's never been in a relationship. If he knew what he's missing, he'd think differently.'_

Grissom continued his little speech.

"Relationships change the way people behave at the workplace," He mused aloud, "Couples fight-"

Bobby smiled and glanced at Archie, on the other side of the table. Archie smiled too, although he didn't return the glance. He didn't need to look or even ask, to know what was in Bobby's mind: Yes, people fought, but reconciliations could be sooo good...

'_Poor Grissom,_' Bobby thought to himself, '_What does he know?'_

"And when people start fighting over personal issues-" Grissom said, "Their jobs suffer."

"I couldn't agree with you more," Said Hodges, who had never been in a relationship with a coworker but never lost a chance to kiss ass.

"Besides," Grissom said, "I don't think people can go from one partner to the next as easily as that," Grissom said, waving at the TV screen. "There's always jealousy involved."

Andrea looked up and wondered if that was true. She hoped not. She'd had fun with Scotty from ballistics, but it was time to move on. Donny from Trace was cuter, and he had that Harley-

"So, Grissom," Catherine said, "What you're saying is that coworkers shouldn't sleep together. Did I get that right?"

Grissom ignored her sarcastic tone.

"Exactly." He said quietly.

"Well," she shrugged, "You're preaching to the converted here."

Grissom nodded good-naturedly.

"That's good to know." He said. He snapped his book shut, and then glanced around the table, "I believe we all have work to do-" he paused.

They took the hint. Some of them picked up empty containers of fast food and soda cans, while others cleaned up the table. Sara picked up the remote and, giving one last look at the TV screen, turned it off.

* * *

Grissom returned to his office. He was checking on his calls when Greg came in. The young man leant on the desk and waited until Grissom gazed up.

"Yes, Greg?"

"So," he said, "Coworkers shouldn't have sex at their workplace, uh?"

"That's what I said." He nodded.

"And they shouldn't have relationships."

"No."

"Because they fight-"

"Exactly."

"And their work suffer."

"Uh, huh."

Greg crossed his arms and stared at Grissom. Grissom merely stared back.

Greg scoffed.

"Gil Grissom, you're one big hypocrite."

"Me?" Grissom frowned, "Why?"

"Why?" he repeated, mimicking Grissom's tone, "Gil," he said, and then he lowered his voice, "We've been together for _two years_."

"Yes." He nodded.

"We've had fights-" he said.

"A couple," Gil admitted reluctantly.

"You've been jealous-"

"Because you flirt with everybody-"Grissom retorted.

"I don't flirt with everybody," Greg replied, "I'm just... friendly."

Grissom gave him a skeptical look.

"I am," Greg insisted, surprised that Grissom wouldn't believe him, "Besides, _I_'ve been jealous, too." he pointed out. "I mean, _you_ work way too often with Sofia-"

Grissom gaped.

"_Sofía?_" he asked incredulously.

He stared at Greg until the young man shrugged evasively.

"Just forget it," he muttered. "My point is, no matter what we do, our jobs have never suffered-"

"That's true." Grissom admitted quietly.

"So?"

Grissom paused.

"I guess we're the exception to the rule." He said quietly.

"We are?" Greg asked and then he smiled, "So... that means we can continue having fun-"

"Absolutely." Grissom said.

That was all he was going to say.

Gil didn't mention the fact that he knew that everybody else in the lab was having _fun_, and he would never admit how much it worried him. That's why he'd given that little speech -he was asking them not to put their own interests before their duty; a friendly warning, so to speak.

He hoped they'd got the message.

But he wouldn't tell Greg, if only to protect their coworkers intimacy.

He only hoped they would extend the same courtesy to him if they ever found out about Greg.

Now Gil looked at the young man. He liked to do that, now and then –just look. He rarely did it at the workplace, where his focus was entirely on the job; but whenever he had a chance... he stared.

Greg stared back… but not for long. Frankly, Gil's stares got a bit too hot to handle sometimes.

In a public place, that is.

"So..." Greg said to distract himself, "How's the book coming up?"

"What book?"

"The one you were reading while we watched Grey's Anatomy." Greg replied, glancing pointedly at the book on the desk.

"Oh," Grissom said, "This book," he patted it, "It's ok, I guess. I wasn't really focusing on it-"

"Ha!" Greg exclaimed in triumph, "I knew it! You were more interested in Grey's Anatomy, weren't you!"

"No, I wasn't." Grissom replied indignantly, "I _was _trying to read the book but _you_ kept distracting me." he glared, "Your brushed my hand every time you reached for a glass of water, your knee kept bumping into mine... your foot kept invading my personal space -"

Greg smiled, "Guilty as charged." He said cheekily.

Grissom's pager rang then. He glanced at it.

"Doc Robbins is ready for the autopsy." He looked up, "I've got to go. Are we having breakfast together?" he asked as he picked up his jacket.

"Sure." Greg said good-naturedly, "Oh, and by the way… I tivoed tonight's episode of Grey's Anatomy," he smirked, "In case you wanna watch the ending…"

Grissom hesitated; he was not really interested in the TV show but he suspected it was one of the young man's favorites.

"All right," he said at last, "I'll watch it... on one condition."

"What condition?"

"That you'll continue distracting me."

Greg grinned.

"You liked that, uh?" he said, "My knee against yours, my hand brushing your hand, my foot -"

"Oh, yeah." Grissom admitted, and a half-smile graced his lips as he added, "You should know by now how much I enjoy studying _Greg's Anatomy_."

The End


	7. CAUGHT

Aaaagh! There's that time of the year upon us once again –May! TV season is about to end, and that means that TV shows will be offering all sorts of preposterous story lines designed to keep their audiences hooked, not to mention plenty of cliff-hangers that won't be solved until September!

It's also time to start wondering if WP will be back next season; I mean, as much as I like some of the other characters, CSI would not be the same without Grissom in it.

CAUGHT

Someone gets caught in the storage room...

* * *

It was a night like all others at the lab...

...Except for two CSIs who craved some quiet time together. There were few options available for them the lab, but they had access to an old storage room in the basement, and that's where they went.

Cautiously, they walked down the hallway and after verifying that no one was looking, they opened the door and closed it behind themselves. They didn't turn on the lights –they could find their special corner with their eyes closed- and once they got there, they turned to each other in a frenzy of caresses and kisses.

She pulled back all of a sudden.

"Wait!" she hissed.

"What is it?" he asked, slightly peeved.

"I think someone's coming-"

"Oh, yeah, baby-" he replied, "Me!"

"Shhh!" She whispered urgently, "You hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Steps!" she replied, "Someone's coming! Get down!" She said, "Quick!"

They crouched down in their corner and kept silent, and just in time; the door opened and by the sounds made, it was obvious that two people had entered the room.

These two didn't turn on the lights either. But then, after dozens of clandestine meetings in the old storage room, they knew where to go, too. Noiselessly, they slipped into their corner and were about to turn to each other, when suddenly, the door opened again.

A beam of light from the hallway entered the room, but it was not enough for the newcomer, who wanted to see more than the vague shapes of gurneys and old pieces of furniture.

He turned on the lights then, and in a playful tone, he said.

"I know you're hee-eere..."

In the few seconds that followed, Grissom felt silly for addressing what looked like an empty room, but before he could turn off the lights and leave, something extraordinary happened: Broken gurneys moved, old sheets fell, and an old desk was pushed away, as four people emerged from their hiding places.

Catherine and Warrick reluctantly stood up, just in time to see Bobby and Archie rise from their own spot behind an old desk. They were too surprised to do more than glance at one another. They were too embarrassed to look in Gil's direction.

But Grissom was surprised, too, and so it took him a while to say anything.

"Catherine?" he said, "Warrick..." He looked from them to the other two, "What are you doing here?"

"We..." Bobby started, "Uh, we..."

Warrick tried to help.

"We just came to... hum..." He hesitated, and then he looked around in defeat. He couldn't think of one believable lie. After all, why would anyone come to this old storeroom -except to fool around, that is?

"We, hum," Catherine tried, "We just wanted to check out the supplies left in this room." She said, and then she looked up defiantly.

"Actually," Archie said, "I was thinking that I could use the space as a lab -"

"Hum, yeah," Bobby said, "Exactly."

Grissom listened to the half-baked excuses, but it was clear that he didn't believe one word.

"I think we all all know what you came here for," he said calmly. He looked at one couple and then at the other.

"Uh, Grissom," Warrick said, "It's not... It's not like we do this all the time."

Grissom nodded solemnly.

"Fine." He said, and then he took a step aside, leaving the doorway free, "I believe you all have something to do upstairs?"

They took the hint.

Bobby and Archie left first, but when Warrick and Catherine walked past him, Grissom couldn't help it.

"Did you know those two were there, too?" He asked.

"No, Grissom." Catherine lied, "We didn't."

"Mmmh." Grissom nodded.

Catherine motioned Warrick to leave, and then she turned to Grissom.

"Gil... it's not like we do this every night-" she said, using a conciliatory tone, "It's just that, you know, sometimes it gets a little tense, and we need an outlet, and we come here to-" She paused when she noticed the look of panic on Gil's eyes -the same look he got every time people broached the subject of personal relationships to him.

"Oh, for God's sake," she said, rolling her eyes, "You're such a prude when it comes to sex!" She shook her head, "Look." She said, softening her tone, "Just... Don't made a big deal out of this, ok?"

Grissom scoffed.

"Not make a big deal out of the fact that some of my colleagues are having sex during working hours?"

"Gil." She was about to argue but she thought better of it. "It won't happen again." She said in a tired tone. "I promise."

"Ok." He said quietly.

She stepped into the hallway and glanced at him.

"Are you coming?"

"I'll go in a minute," he said, "I'm just going to take a look at this room. Maybe Archie's right; maybe we can turn it into an office."

"Fine." She said, and then she turned away.

Grissom closed the door and then he looked around. The room looked empty, but it couldn't be; he had looked everywhere else-

"Ok," he said tentatively, "They're gone. You can come out now."

A groan rose from somewhere in the room.

"Wow, that was close!" Greg said.

To Gil's amazement, the young man rolled out from under the old gurney that was right in the middle of the room. He'd been hiding in plain sight, under an old sheet.

Greg stood up with some difficulty.

"Oh, man!" he said, shaking his head, "Every time the door opened, I thought it was you! And then it turned out it wasn't you but Catherine and Warrick, and then Bobby and Archie! Can you believe it?" he smiled michievously, "Talk about leading double lives, uh?"

"I can't cast stones." Grissom said primly.

"Me neither, I guess." Greg admitted, "Poor guys, they must be really frustrated." He looked at Gil, "What about you?" he asked, taking a step closer, "Are you frustrated?" He leant forward and kissed Gil. He was reaching for Grissom's belt when the older man pulled back. "Hey, where are you going?" Greg asked huskily, "I promised to reward you if you found me-"

"I have to go back to the lab." Grissom said in a tone that had equal parts of regret and exasperation, "I spent _half an hour_ looking for you."

"What can I say?" Greg smiled smugly, "I'm good at this."

Grissom shook his head.

"This is the last time we play hide-and-seek at the lab, Greg."

"Oh, come on-" Greg protested, "We had fun!"

"Yeah," Grissom nodded, "But we came this close to getting discovered. It's too dangerous."

"Fine." Greg said, "You win." He pecked Grissom's mouth again and then he walked to the door. Before he opened it, he smiled. "Catherine doesn't know you that well, huh? You're definitely not a prude when it comes to sex."

They shared a smile of complicity.

* * *

The room was empty at last.

Or almost.

"Oh, boy," Albert Robbins moaned as he rolled out of his hiding place: a credenza that Ecklie had kept in his old office. Robbins had discovered that it was a great little place to take brief naps in.

Only, this time his usual twenty-minute nap had turned into a full hour of agony that had started when Greg entered the room, and continued as the other four came in.

Fortunately, Grissom had put an end to it just in time. Robbins was not a prude, but he wasn't a voyeur either.

In the darkness, Albert reached for his legs and fitted them, and then he felt his way towards the door. He didn't open it right away. First he took a moment to muse on what just had happened.

Warrick and Catherine? _Wow_. Bobby and Archie? _Now, that was unexpected-_

Gil and Greg?

Robbins shook his head. _Well, well_. Life was full of surprises...

Fortunately for all of them, Robbins was not a gossip.

Ah, but he would enjoy teasing them now and then...

THE END

I'm going on vacation, but there'll be more stories coming up in May!


	8. THE CALL

THE CALL

Slash, Gil & Greg

Romance

A story told from Gil's POV.

* * *

I've just given my testimony in a case I've been workingon for about a month. Just before I'm excused from the Court, I manage to put a question to the DA. 

"Do you want me to stick around?"

Sometimes he asks us to stay, in case something unexpected comes up.

"You may go." He says. "I don't think I'll need forensics to win the case."

Oh. That doesn't sound veryreassuring.

But I'm too exhausted to argue; I've been up since yesterday morning, and in just a few hours I'll have to go back to the lab. I really need to get away from it all, if only for a while-

So maybe he's doing me a favor by letting me go.

I leave the Courtroom then.

I said I needed to get away from it all, so I drive to Greg's place. I wouldn't recommend trying to get away from it all by visiting a coworker, but in our case it works very well . We rarely talk about the job when we're alone.

In fact, sometimes _talking_ is the least of our concerns.

I use my own key to get into his place. The living room is in the dark, which means he's still in bed. Good; he needs the rest.

I start taking off my clothes as soon as I close the door, and by the time I get to his bedroom I'm down to my boxers.

He doesn't stir when I crawl under the sheets and get as close to him as I dare without waking him up. He mutters something in his sleep, but that's all. Gratefully, I match my breathing to his, and after a while I begin to fall asleep-

And then,the phone rings.

I blindly reach for the cell phone and bark into it.

"What!"

"Grissom?"

"Catherine?"

I wait for her to say something, but she doesn't. Maybe I was too harsh?

I make an effort and soften the tone of my voice.

"Catherine." I repeat. When she doesn't say anything, I add a bit testily, "What do you want?"

"I... uh..." she hesitates, "Are you... ok?" she asks.

"I'm trying to get some sleep," I say a bit peevishly. "I worked two shifts in a row and then I had to go to court -" There's movement beside me, and too late I remember that I'm not alone in the room. I glance over my shoulder and see Greg waving at me. I ignore him. "Listen, Catherine," I say, "I'm tired, ok? Whatever it is... it can wait."

"Ah, hum." She hesitates. And then she changes her mind and says, "Ok!" in a perky tone thatshe rarely uses, "Sure, Gil." she adds, "If you say so. We'll talk later!" And then she hungs up.

I drop the phone and turn to Greg.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I didn't mean to wake you up."

He's staring at me.

"Gil, I don't know how to tell you this, but..." he takes a deep breath, "You answered _my_ phone."

I don't believe him. Mechanically, I pick up the phone and stare at it.

It is not my phone.

Of course; I left mine along with my belt and my pants, in his living room.

"Oh, shit." I mutter.

Greg puts his hand on my shoulder.

"Relax." He says soothingly, "It was Catherine. She's not gonna make a big deal out of this,is she?"

"I don't know."

And, truly, I don't.

"Well, there's one way to find out." He says calmly, and then reaches for the phone.He dialsa number, waits, and then he greets her, "Hey, Catherine. Did you want to talk to me? Uh, huh..." he mumbles, listening to her. "Mmmh... So, there's more evidence?" he asks. They're obviously talking about a case.

"I got it." He says after a moment, "I'll get there before the shift starts. Oh, and about the other thing..." he pauses and lets her talk. Then he smiles. "Yeah, I know." He says. "I appreciate that, Catherine."

He sounds genuinely grateful.

"Thanks." He says, and thenhe hands me the phone and mouths the words_, 'It's Ok. Talk to her.'_

I gulp and take the phone.

And hope for the best.

* * *

The End 


	9. CRUSHED

CRUSHED

Romance and Humor. Greg has a crush on certain actor, and Grissom's jealous.

Spoilers: In "Play with Fire," the lab explodes, injuring Greg. In "Inside the Box," Grissom undergoes surgery.

Have you ever seen "The Beast"? WP stars in it; he plays a fisherman who battles a giant squid. It's a good role for him, and he's the main reason to watch the movie.

* * *

Greg was watching TV from the cozy comfort of his couch. He liked this movie; nothing could draw his attention away from it... until he heard the sound of a key turning on the door lock.

Greg looked up just in time to see Gil Grissom push the door open with his shoulder, while juggling a half-dozen paper bags in his arms.

"Hey," Greg greeted.

"Hey," Grissom replied, as he leant back on the door to close it. Then he took the bags to the kitchen.

Greg recognized some of the logos: The Healthy Paradise Grocery Store; Mamma Mia's Deli (his favorite); LVPD Pharmacy Store...

"Want any help?" He called out, knowing very well that Grissom would say no. Gil didn't even answer; he opened the bags and started putting the groceries away. "I don't like feeling so useless." Greg sighed.

"The more you rest now, the sooner you'll be back at the lab," Grissom said reasonably.

Greg sighed. He was lying down on the couch, on his left side -the side that didn't hurt. He was still recovering from minor injuries he'd suffered during an explosion that had destroyed his lab.

His bones were intact, but the skin on the right side of his body was a ghoulish black and blue now, and his face looked as if he routinely used sandpaper to shave.

But things could have been worse. At least, that's what everyone said. He'd disagreed; as he'd said to Nick Stokes, '_What can be worse than having to take a leave of absence just when I was about to make some much-needed money from overtime? And what can be worse than having my face dotted with little band-aids, as if I were a pimply teenager?'_

Nick had patiently reminded Greg that he was lucky to be alive, and Greg had grudgingly agreed. However, every time Grissom dropped by, Greg was reminded of yet another reason not to feel lucky:

He was still too bruised to have sex.

Morosely, Greg turned his attention back to the TV. There was some consolation, there. At least, he got to watch his favorite movies.

"You should be resting," Grissom said.

Greg looked up. Gil had finished in the kitchen, and now he was standing beside the couch, looking down at him with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

"I am resting." Greg replied. He patted the couch, "Wanna lie down here with me?"

"Can't." Grissom said regretfully, "Have to go back to the lab."

"Sit down." Greg insisted, moving his legs so Gil could sit on the edge of the couch.

Grissom relented. They held each other's gaze for a moment, and then they carefully glanced away; their relationship was just a few months old, and they were still at a stage where their physical attraction was stronger than their common sense.

Grissom tilted his head towards the kitchen.

"I bought you some food." He said, "Stuff for sandwiches, mostly. Oh, and the girl from the Deli sent you a pint of that potato salad you like."

"Thanks."

"I talked to your doctor about the side effects of those painkillers he prescribed," He added, "He gave me a different prescription this time and-" he stopped in mid-phrase. He had glanced at the TV screen and couldn't believe what he was looking at. "Greg? You're watching The Beast again."

"Mmmh?" Greg followed the direction of Gil's gaze and nodded, "Oh. Yeah, I am. Why?"

"You watched it last week," Grissom pointed out, "And you watched it twice the week before last."

"So? I like it. And you should be glad that I do; you gave me the DVD for my birthday."

"I got it just because you were dropping hints that were as subtle as anvils." He glared.

Greg smiled.

"Yeah, well." He shrugged, "It's a good movie."

Grissom looked at Greg as if the young man had grown an extra nose.

"The Beast is a good movie? But the special effects are so cheesy!"

"You think so?" Greg asked vaguely, turning his attention back to the screen again. "They're ok."

"I mean, look at that." Grissom said, "They obviously filmed that scene in a pool. The ocean doesn't flow that way in real life-"

"Gil, it's a movie about a giant squid," he glared, "How authentic can that be? Besides," he muttered almost to himself, "There's more than special effects holding my attention."

Grissom frowned. He glanced from the TV to Greg, studying the young man's reaction to the scenes on the screen. The movie's hero was running up and down, frantically trying to rescue his friend, and Greg was avidly following the scene.

And suddenly, Grissom got a clue. "You have a crush on that guy!" he said, and somehow he made it sound almost like a accusation.

Greg stalled. Or tried to.

"I don't have a crush." He muttered evasively.

Grissom gazed back at the screen.

"I didn't know you had a thing for bearded guys." He said.

Greg shrugged slightly.

"Well. Hum. He looks ok..."

"He's wearing a _pink_ t-shirt." Grissom muttered, but Greg ignored the interruption.

"...He's athletic," Greg continued, "He has a nice nose-"

"A nice nose?"

"Yeah." Greg replied, "Sort of small and perky -"

Grissom studied the face on the screen.

"Well," he scoffed, "You know what they say about _small _noses."

"What?" asked Greg.

"Well," Grissom said, "They say that the size of the nose is in direct proportion to the size of –ahem- something else, so-"

Greg laughed out loud, but the effort cost him.

"Shit, it hurts!" he winced grabbing his side, "Hey," he glared, "Try not to make me laugh, ok? My ribs are still sore!"

"Sorry." Grissom said sheepishly.

Greg stared at Grissom. It suddenly dawned on him that Gil might not be trying to make him laugh, but simply trying to put down the guy on the screen.

And that could only mean…

"You're jealous?" he asked incredulously. Grissom's sole response was a disdainful glare, but it didn't fool Greg. "Aw, you shouldn't be." The young man said, slightly patting Gil's thigh. "After all... The reason I like this guy is because he looks so much like you."

"Me?" Grissom asked in disbelief.

"Yeah." Greg said. He turned to look at the screen. "Maybe it's the nose." He smirked.

Grissom opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and closed it with a snap. He turned his attention to the guy on the screen, and watched as he tried to save his friend from drowning in the middle of what was surely a pool, not the open ocean.

He'd seen enough.

"Well," he said, rising from his seat, "I've got to go."

Greg sat up with an effort. He reached out to touch Grissom, but held back with some difficulty.

"Hey." He said, "Thanks for coming."

"Sure," Grissom said. He hesitated, and then he bent to kiss Greg's mouth. "Try to get some rest." He whispered.

"I will."

Their gazes met. They were so close… Too close. Grissom pulled back abruptly.

"Nick and Sara will bring you breakfast tomorrow." he said, "If you need anything, call Catherine or me, ok?"

"I'm gonna be fine." Greg said.

Grissom picked up the remote and handed it to Greg.

"Enjoy The-guy-in-pink Show." He said ironically.

Greg glanced at the TV screen.

"It's not pink!" He retorted.

"Yes, it is."

* * *

A Month Later...

Greg got a bottle of wine from the fridge and opened it with ease. He put it on the table, to let it breathe. It wasn't the most expensive brand, but it was all he could afford. That, and a dinner of steaks and salad, plus Gil's favorite ice cream. Greg wanted to give him a suitable welcome.

Grissom had been away for almost a month. First, he'd had an operation to deal with his otosclerosis, and then he'd taken a vacation.

And in all this time, he'd called only twice and written just a handful of e-mails.

Greg was nervous, to say the least. Anxious. But he was pissed, too. Grissom had never bothered to mention his otosclerosis or his impending surgery, and when he did, it was on the _phone_. Grissom had explained that the operation had been a success, but he needed some time off. That sounded ominous.

Greg was wondering yet again if their relationship would withstand the long separation, when he noticed the familiar sound of a key turning in the lock.

_This is it_, Greg thought, as the door opened. And then, there he stood –the love of his life, his boss, his best friend, his-

Greg's jaw dropped. There stood a man in his late forties, with graying hair, piercing blue eyes, a familiar smile, _and_ a bushy beard-

_Bushy beard?_

And now the man closed the door and took an uncertain step in his direction.

"Hey," Gil said, but Greg didn't respond.

Gil's heart sank.

For two weeks, Grissom had debated whether growing a beard was a wise decision or a blunder that would ruin everything. He'd taken the risk, anyway.

"No good?" he asked now.

And finally, Greg's jaw moved.

"Hey, Bear," he blurted out.

Grissom's smile widened. _Bear _was one of the words that Greg used as an endearment when they were in bed. It sounded promising.

"Missed you." Grissom said.

"Me, too." Greg said, and he took a couple of steps until he was close enough to touch Gil's face. "Oh, wow," he muttered in awe. "This... this _is_ different."

"It is." Grissom let Greg touched his face, but didn't move. He was waiting for some other sign from Greg –something that told him this had not been a mistake.

"I kinda wondered, you know?" Greg said, "Whether you'd look good with a beard. And it _looks_ good -"

"But?" Grissom asked.

"Oh, your butt looks good, too." Greg replied distractedly. He got even closer, and tentatively lay a kiss on Grissom's furry jaw. And then he lay a couple more, "Feels soft." He said. "_Bear._" He added. Now the nickname was more appropriate than ever.

"Will this keep you from fantasizing about that guy from 'The Beast'?"

"Ah, forget that guy." Greg whispered, "You're the real thing." He wrapped both arms around Grissom and started walking backwards, taking him along. "Missed you, Bear."

Holding each other, their legs bumping, they walked down the aisle until they found themselves in Greg's bedroom. Greg started unbuttoning Gil's leather jacket while Grissom pulled Greg's shirt out of the way.

And then, just as Gil was leaning forward for a kiss, Greg said, in a mournful tone.

"What? No pink t-shirt?"

There was a stunned silence... followed by Greg's laughter.

"Kidding, Bear! Just kidding!"

* * *

Thank you for reviewing!

THE END


	10. TURMOIL

TURMOIL

G/G Slash, Established Relationship. Drama (or humor, depending on how you look at it).

Gil muses on how his relationship with Greg has affected his life.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - -

_He hasn't changed._

_It's been a year since he became our new CSI, and a couple of months since he became my lover. He may dress better now, but apart from that, I haven't perceived any change in Greg's behavior. He's still the same Greg Sanders everybody knows: Passionate about his work, prone to talk too much and tell jokes at inappropriate moments. _

_In short, he's still infuriating but lovable at the same time. And that's all right; those were the traits that drew me to him in the first place._

_The problem –my problem- is that he still flirts with everyone –men or women._

_I know he means no harm –in his mind, he's just being friendly- but it has started to bother me. _

_Just the other night, I saw him talking to Nick and Warrick. I knew it was only a friendly conversation but I couldn't help feeling jealous. Even worse, I felt something close to envy –envy of Nick and Warrick's youth, and the ease with which they talked about things that held an interest for Greg._

_It's not as if I'd never experienced those feelings before, but I'd always been able to dismiss them as pathetic and despicable, while now... Now I fi__nd myself struggling with them. _

_I wrestle with them until I defeat them…__But I don't always win._

_It's not as if I expected him to change just because he's with me now. In fact, remaining the same is probably the wisest course for us, since we need to keep this relationship a secret. But now I wish he'd keep the rest of the night shift crew at a distance, if only out of consideration for me. _

But he won't do that, and I'm not going to ask him, either.

Besides, there are other things that trouble me even more.

_For instance, Greg is such a big part of my life now, that I find myself thinking of him at the most inappropriate moments. Say I'm at the morgue and Albert is telling me about someone's death. Suddenly, he stares at me and asks, 'Gil? Are you listening?'_

_And that's when I realize that I haven't been paying attention at all; that all along I'd been thinking of something Greg said that morning. Or something we did together…_

_Or let's say I'm out in the field, and Catherine says hello, and I answer, 'Good evening, Gr- Catherine."_

_And she looks at me, puzzlement clearly defined on her face. And then she says, 'Well, good evening to you too, Gr-issom.' And then she laughs and says, 'Someone has his own name on the tip of his tongue, tonight.'_

_She finds it amusing, but I wonder how she would react if she knew that it wasn't my name but Greg's on the tip of my tongue –and the reason for this._

_-- - - - - - -_

_Before I was in a relationship, I would go home and close the door and forget about the world outside. But now when I'm home, no matter what I'm doing –reading, watching TV, or simply resting- I'm also keeping an eye on the phone, hoping that he will call. And I know I'm acting like a teenager waiting for somebody to call, but I can't help it._

_And every time the phone rings, I literally jump to answer._

_And the thing is… he always calls._

_I told him about this once, and he said I shouldn't worry, that he spent a sizable amount of time waiting for me to call too; that even when he was reading something or watching TV or surfing the net, in reality he was waiting for me to call._

_Only, I never did._

_It didn't seem to bother him, though. None of this does. As I said before, nothing seems to have changed for him, whereas life itself seems to have changed for me. _

_All this has started to worry me. _

_I'm afraid that one of these days something will happen, and the fragile wall that keeps my private life and my professional life apart will suddenly collapse; and then I will have to choose between my job and this relationship. _

_I don't know what I'll do, then._

_But this isn't the right time to be thinking about this; I need to concentrate, and-_

A voice suddenly cut into my thoughts.

"Dr. Grissom?"

I blinked and glanced around. The jurors and the prosecutor were frowning at me.

I was in the middle of a trial, and I hadn't been paying attention.

"Dr. Grissom?" the Judge said again, "Do you need Counsel to rephrase that question?"

I cleared my throat.

"Yes, Gr- I mean, yes, your Honor."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

THE END


	11. JUST ANOTHER BOOK

JUST A LITTLE BOOK

Greg discovers the source of Gil's 'moves'.

Romance, humor, PWP.

* * *

Greg Sanders leant over the railing of the sunny balcony and smiled to himself. He loved the view he got from here; it was one of the best features of his apartment. It was on a fifth floor, so he was spared of much of the blaring sounds coming from the street below. 

He glanced at the sky. The day looked promising; sunny but not too hot -just perfect to spend it outside. Greg smiled again. It was his first day off in weeks, and he was going to enjoy it in style.

He went back inside. A moment later, he came out again, bearing a pile of books, a tall glass of ice tea, and a large bag of Doritos. He put the food on a low rattan table and then he settled on one of the two lounge chairs he'd recently acquired. He almost opened the beach umbrella in the corner and decided against it. He'd wait until noon.

After opening the bag of chips, Greg turned his attention to the books; he was about to pick the thick paperback novel on top, but a slender book in the middle of the pile caught his attention first. He glanced at the title.

"Bugs," he muttered. It was one of Gil's books. Greg shook his head. He wasn't in the mood to read a textbook, and so he set the book aside.

He reached for the novel again, when something made him pause. Smiling to himself, he picked up Gil's book again. Gil liked it when people showed an interest on Entomology, and Greg liked to learn new things -especially if they had something to do with Gil.

Greg was casually browsing, stopping here and there to glance at the illustrations, when a footnote caught his attention. He read. And then he read some more.

His eyes widened in surprise.

"Well, well," he whispered.

After a moment, he closed the book and put it down again. He didn't pick another book; for a few minutes, all he did was stare ahead, lost in thoughts.

The ringing tones of his cell phone put an end to his reverie.

He immediately picked it up and answered in his most professional tone.

"Sanders."

"Hey, Greg."

It was Grissom.

Greg's features softened at the sound of Gil's voice. Gil had used that husky tone of his, the one that never failed to turn him on. Anything Gil said -even something gross like, "There are maggots festering in the wound track," - was sexy when he used that tone.

"Hey," Greg said, using his own husky tone. "I didn't think I'd be hearing from you today. You said you were going to be in Court all morning -"

"We didn't even get to go to Court," Gil said, and he couldn't help sounding smug as he added, "When Madison's lawyer saw the evidence we had, he withdrew his plea of not-guilty. They're negotiating a deal."

"Congratulations. The hard work paid off."

"It did."

"But you missed the chance to tell the jury about the evidence."

"Hey, it's all right," Gil said dismissively, "You never know if the jurors are going to understand the science, anyway."

"So, where are you?"

"I'm about three blocks from your place right now."

"You're taking the day off?" Greg was surprised, "That's great! I'll let you drive then -"

"Wait," Gil said, "Don't hang up yet. I can drive and talk, you know. What are you doing?"

"Guess."

"Mmmh. You're in bed, watching TV -"

"Wrong. I _was_ in bed watching TV; right now I'm on the balcony, drinking iced tea and reading."

"What are you reading?"

"Up until a couple of minutes ago, I was reading some porn."

Gil hesitated.

"Porn?" he asked.

"Uh, huh."

"On the balcony?"

"Yeah."

"You were reading porn on the balcony," Gil repeated, just to be sure.

"I know it's not the wisest place to do that -" Greg noted, glancing at the other balconies. They seemed empty but you never knew. "But it's not like I was doing anything, either."

"Oh, so you were reading porn just for its literary content?" Gil asked, his voice dripping sarcasm.

"Hey, it's not like I was exactly planning on reading porn out here, Grissom," Greg replied, "The book fell on my lap, so to speak."

"Oh, really?"

"Really." Greg said. "And I only read a couple of pages before putting it down."

Gil didn't comment.

Greg smiled mischievously.

"Aren't you going to ask exactly what it was that I was reading?"

"If it was porn, then I think I know exactly what it was about." Gil said dryly.

"How do you know that?" Greg challenged, but before Gil could answer, he added, "Oh, I know you consider porn as the last resort of people who lack an imagination -"

"I've never said that."

"Not in those words," Greg admitted, "But you've said that anyone with the slightest figment of imagination and a superficial knowledge of the human body needn't resort to porn to get an-"

"_I_ said that?"

"Yes, you did."

"Well -"

"You've also said that porn desensitizes people." Greg pointed out.

"I do believe so, yes." Gil admitted quietly.

Greg smiled again.

"You don't think porn can be an educational tool?"

"Do _you_ think it can?"

"Well, I've learned a thing or two over the years," Greg replied, "You, of all people, should be thankful. But anyway," he added before Gil could comment, "If you don't believe in the redeeming qualities of porn… then how do you explain that it was _your_ porn I was reading?"

There was a brief silence on the other side of the line.

"_My _porn?" Gil asked at last, a faint undertone of amusement in his words, "I don't have any -"

"Yes, you do."

"I don't have any porn, Greg." Gil repeated, more firmly now.

"Ok, so maybe it's not porn, per se," Greg conceded, "You might call it a Sex Education Manual or something like that. I found it very interesting. Very _enlightening_. In fact, I was wondering if-"

"Greg?" Gil interrupted, "What are you talking about?"

Greg chuckled.

"I was reading your book on sexual habits of insects and other creatures in the wild."

"Oh."

"Yes, _'Oh,'_" Greg said, imitating Gil's tone. "It's really interesting, you know? It really opened my eyes."

"But it's not porn."

"Well, you can call it what you like," Greg replied, "Whatever it is, it's, hum, revealing. ."

"What does that mean?" Grissom asked, slightly peeved. "It's just a book, Greg."

"Oh, I agree. It's just another book, or so I thought, until I got to the chapter on the sexual habits of the Angel Beetle of Costa Rica, which -and I quote, 'grabs its mate's front limbs and then pins it against a solid surface, where it holds it down long enough to deposit its sperm sac -'"

Greg paused.

"And?" Gil asked, "What's your point?"

"Doesn't that ring any bells?"

"Should it?"

"Grissom, you used that move on me a couple of weeks ago."

"W-what?" Grissom sputtered.

"Don't you remember?" Greg asked good-naturedly, "We were coming back from the lab when you grabbed my wrists-"

"I did not!" Grissom said indignantly.

"Yes, you did," Greg said patiently. "You grabbed my wrists, pinned me against the wall and then you held me down while-"

"Greg, you can't possibly compare -"

"Why not? It was pretty similar, you know."

"There's no comparison!" Grissom insisted, "Besides, I should think I used more finesse than a beetle!"

"I'm not saying you didn't." Greg conceded, "But the technique was essentially the same. Oh, and then there's that thing you do with your tongue -"

"What thing?"

"That thing," Greg replied, "Sort of like a chameleon, when its tongue darts out to catch the farthest fly in order to impress a mate."

"A fly?" Gil sputtered again. "Greg, I can't believe you're comparing me to a -"

"I'm not saying you're acting like a chameleon, Griss." Greg said gently, "But the more I read about the Pigmy Chameleon from Manaos, the more familiar it all seemed to me. Oh, and don't get me started on the Cricket of Madagascar…"

Greg made another tantalizing pause. He was waiting to see what sort of defense Gil was going to put up. To his surprise, Gil didn't immediately reply.

"What about it?" Gil asked after a moment.

"Well, it's just that it has a curious way of getting its mate down on the ground, where it twirls it 'til it's in the right position to… Oh, but I don't have to describe every little thing, right?" Greg said, smiling mischievously, "_You_ know what I'm talking about."

This time it took Grissom a while longer to say something.

Greg really wished he could look at him right then. If the silence was any indication, Grissom was deep in thought, doing some serious self-examination.

After a moment, Gil cleared his throat.

"Greg…" he started, "You don't actually think that I -"

"Yes, I do." Greg replied, and he started to laugh. "Who would have thought you'd be getting sex tips from creatures that are no more than a couple of inches long?"

Grissom was silent for a full minute. When he spoke, he sounded really contrite.

"Greg..." he said, "I don't know what to say -"

"I understand -"

"- I didn't realize I was doing this."

"I believe you." Greg said, amused at Gil's seriousness.

"Listen," Grissom said, "If it makes you uncomfortable -"

"It doesn't," Greg replied good-naturedly, "I mean, it's kinda weird -"

"That's an understatement," Grissom mumbled.

"-but in a good way," Greg finished. "I mean, it's kinda hot too, you know? Unique. _Kinky_."

"Kinky?"

"Yeah. And the thing is, you keep surprising me, and that's good. It makes _me_ try harder. I mean, I can't keep using the same old missionary position, right? I gotta be inventive to keep up with you."

Gil was cautiously relieved.

"You don't mind, then?"

"Nah." Greg said, "In fact, I stopped reading the book so I wouldn't spoil any surprises you might have for me in the future."

"Good." Grissom said, clearly relieved, "Listen," he added, "I'm about to enter the parking lot, ok? I'll be there in a minute."

* * *

Grissom used his own key to enter Greg's apartment. He crossed the living room and tapped on the glass door to get Greg's attention. 

Greg casually glanced over his shoulder.

"Hey -" he started, only to stop in mid-greeting. What he saw made him gape.

Grissom was wearing his best blue suit, a snowy-white shirt, and the burgundy tie that Greg had given him for Christmas. The combination of colors highlighted the healthy tan on Gil's cheeks and the blue of his eyes. Gil looked handsome and appealing -hell, he looked downright kissable.

With his eyes fixed on Gil, Greg rose from the chair and took a step, only to trip on the rattan table. Books spilled over but Greg didn't notice. He was unable to gaze away; in fact, he was so intent on reaching Gil, that he didn't notice that the glass door was still closed. He would have walked right into it if Gil hadn't rushed to open it.

Greg didn't notice any of this. He seemed mesmerized.

Grissom smiled.

"Hey, Greg." He whispered huskily.

Greg's mouth moved but no sound came. He felt as if he was in some sort of daze, unable to say or do anything, except stare at Gil. Meanwhile, the older man was smiling at him, seemingly amused by something.

Greg's eyes narrowed.

"Wait a minute," he said, "I think I know what this is."

"What?" Gil asked.

"You're using the Cameroon butterfly's courtship technique." Greg replied in an accusing tone.

Gil frowned.

"The what?"

"According to your book," Greg said, "The Cameroon butterfly overwhelms its mate with a dazzling display of colors -"

Gil rolled his eyes.

"Greg, you're taking this too far." He said.

"Oh, am I?" Greg challenged, "What's with the clothes, then?"

Gil looked down at himself, "I put on the first suit I saw today."

"Oh, really." Greg said skeptically. "The first?"

"Well, it was not the first, but -"

"You're wearing your _best_ suit, Gil. If you're not wearing it because of me, then-" he paused, "Wait a minute," he said suddenly. "_Now_, I get it. You wore this suit just to dazzle the jurors, didn't you?"

Grissom frowned.

"To _dazzle _the jurors? How can you think that?"

But Greg didn't buy Gil's look of innocence.

"You're devious." He said, shaking his head.

"I'm not," Gil replied, trying to sound indignant and failing. He smiled. "But I can be if you want me to. Now," he added, slowly pulling Greg's shirt out of the confines of his jeans. "How about losing some of these?"

"You're always telling me to lose my clothes," Greg noted, "But you're the one who's always overdressed."

"You're the one who looks better without them." Gil replied. But he left Greg's clothes alone. Instead, he pulled Greg closer for a kiss.

Greg liked the kiss but he couldn't help noticing that it was not the kind of kiss he was used to get after a week-long separation. It seemed that mentioning the Chameleon had put a damper on Grissom's kissing techniques.

Greg was wondering how to bring up the subject, when he noticed a subtle change in Grissom's manner. Something weird was happening and he couldn't quite pinpoint what it was. He just had the impression that Grissom's hands and lips were just everywhere.

It was so intense, that Greg felt his legs buckle under him, but Gil kept him upright in his arms. It wasn't until Gil's mouth took a detour from Greg's lips to the neck, that the young man could finally speak.

"Jesus, Gil… What was that?"

Grissom's reply was muffled by Greg's neck. "Intkntytingabt-"

Making a supreme effort, Greg pushed Gil at arm's length.

"I know what this is," Greg said breathlessly. "It's the snail's courtship, isn't it? It was on that book. I didn't read through to the end, but -"

"Maybe it is the snail's courtship," Gil interrupted. "Maybe it's not." He pulled Greg back into his arms. "But if it is…" he whispered, "You should know that snails usually mate for hours and hours…"

"Great," Muttered Greg, happily giving in to a new experience.

* * *

THE END 


	12. A FLUFFY MOMENT tentative title

A fluffy moment between G&G.

After solving the "Fannysmacking," case, Gil visits Greg at the hospital.

* * *

I hesitated before entering Greg's room. He was in a more quiet area of the hospital, now, and he had a room all to himself. I'd seen him the day before, while the doctors were still examining for internal injuries, and earlier today, while the nurse came in to check on his vitals.

We hadn't had a private moment together until now.

I opened the door and closed it behind me. After a moment's hesitation I approached his bed and peered at him. He was asleep.

The bruises on his face looked more pronounced under the dim lights of the room. I could even make out the imprint of a knuckle on his forehead –

I looked away.

I couldn't bear this.

It was only when I told myself that 'it could have been worse,' that I found it easier to breathe and to get a hold on myself. I reminded myself –yet again- that I had to be strong for him. The bruises would heal, after all. He would heal.

----

There was only one chair in the room and it creaked when I sat on it. I shot an alarmed look at Greg, but fortunately, he didn't stir.

After that, I forced myself not to move, not to move, not even to open the book I'd brought with me. I sat staring at the opposite wall, and making a mental note on the things I should bring next time I visited: A seat cushion, perhaps. Oh, and a bottle of oil to lubricate this damned chair.

A while later, a faint rustling sound caught my attention. In the semi darkness I noticed that Greg was awake, and he was looking in my direction.

I knew I should go to him, but for some reason I couldn't move. And it had nothing to do with the fact that the chair was noisy; I just couldn't go to him.

"I thought you were asleep." I said instead.

"I was." he muttered, "I guess my medication's wearing off. Or maybe your thoughts were getting too loud." He added with a scowl.

I didn't know what he meant by that but I said 'sorry,' anyway.

"It's ok." He said. "It's not like I was having sweet dreams, anyway."

He started to stretch, but something -the pain?- made him stop abruptly. Then he frowned and looked at me.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"It's night time." I said simply.

"Shouldn't you be at the lab?"

"I took the night off."

He seemed surprised.

"You did?"

"I figured I'd be here, in case you needed anything." I said

His mouth was open but no word came out.

Well, well.

It wasn't every day that I was able to leave him speechless.

"Thank you." He said after a moment.

"You're welcome."

We were silent for a moment, and then he spoke again.

"You, hum, you can turn on the lights if you want -"

"It's ok," I said. "You should get some sleep."

"I'm fine." He said. "But I wish you pulled your chair a bit closer."

Pulling the chair would have made a racket, so I rose from it instead.

I approached his bed with some hesitation.

My hand hovered over his for just a second and then withdrew. I felt as if the slightest movement from me would somehow hurt him. It was an unsettling feeling. Me, who'd always been able to put some distance between me and victims of crime in order to do my job, couldn't even look at Greg in the eye now.

I fixed my gaze on a spot just above his head, and ended up talking to it.

"How are you feeling?" I asked solicitously.

"I'm ok."

"Good."

And that was it.

"It won't always be this bad, you know," he said after a moment.

I looked down at him.

His sane eye was fixed on me as he spoke.

"My face," he explained. "Doctors say the bruises will fade in a couple of weeks. If I'm careful, there won't be much scarring," he paused. He managed a faint smile as he added, "I may look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame now, but it won't be like that forever."

With his left cheek partially immobilized by stitches, the smile came out as a grimace. And all of a sudden, I realized that, despite his attempt at humor, there was a definite undercurrent of fear in the words he'd just said.

I tried to reassure him.

"Greg, you're going to be ok -"

"Oh, really."

"Yes, really." I said, frowning at the skepticism in his tone. "You don't believe me?"

"Do _you_ believe it?" he said. "I mean, you can't even look at me for more than a few seconds in a row -"

I was appalled at the implication.

"Do you think a few bruises are going to turn me off?"

He shrugged –at least, he tried.

"That would never happen." I said. "You should know that."

But maybe he didn't.

"Greg, you're going to be fine," I said. I gulped. I didn't know what else to say, but I knew I'd better say something, and fast. "You… You're more than just a pretty face to me."

It was a clumsy thing to say, but he seemed impressed. His eye widened.

I felt silly, trying to explain my feelings to him.I'd never had to, before.

"I, hum, like what's on the outside," I continued, "But I also love this -" and I gently laid a hand on top of his head.

"My hair?" He smirked.

"Your brain, you idiot."

He mused on this.

"You love my brain but I'm an idiot," he said thoughtfully, "Interesting."

"You know what I mean," I said, hoping he did.

He smiled reluctantly.

"I know you love me." he said. "It's just- I don't know. I mean, you wouldn't even come near me. It's like you're freaked out by all this," he made a vague gesture.

It was true. I'd kept a distance between us, and it wasn't just because there'd been doctors and nurses coming and going.

"I'm afraid of hurting you," I said truthfully.

"Grissom, I'm already in a lot of pain," he retorted. "Believe me, I wouldn't notice it if you added to it."

I carefully sat on the edge of the bed and picked up one of his hands. I gently kissed the knuckles, one by one.

Greg shifted uncomfortably.

"Uh, Grissom," he said, tentatively tugging his hand away, "You better don't do that."

I glanced at him.

"Why? Do you think kissing a guy's hand isn't manly enough?"

"It's not that," he replied, then he lowered his voice, "But it's making me horny."

"Really?" I asked, glancing down at his crotch.

Yep, there was definitely something going on down there under the blankets. I wished I could do something about it…

He seemed to guess what I was thinking.

"This definitely not the place for hanky-panky, Gil," he warned.

"Ok," I said, and laid his hand on the bed again. "But it's good to know."

"What?"

"That you protected the family jewels," I smiled.

* * *

THE END 


	13. SIXTY

Sixty 

Grissom worries about growing old. And Greg reveals the name of his fantasy man.

Spoiler: The accused is entitled.

Warning: There's a mild Michael Douglas bashing ahead. So, in case you're a fan...

* * *

Grissom entered his office and gave his desk a cursory glance. There were several envelopes and packages waiting for him but he wasn't in the mood to tackle those yet. Instead, he picked the messages the receptionist had left for him, neatly piled under a paperweight. 

Gil sighed. The shift hadn't even started and he already had about a dozen messages. It was Friday night after all -the busiest night of the week.

Thinking how a cup of coffee might just help him face the night ahead, Grissom left his office and turned in the break room's direction. It was early still; he had plenty of time. Besides, if the messages were any indication, he would not have a moment's rest until the next morning -and maybe not even then.

Gil found Jacqui and Greg in the break room. They were leafing through some magazines.

"Ugh, he looks awful, here," Amy said.

"Who?" Greg asked, looking up. But before Amy replied, he noticed that Grissom was there, "Hey, Grissom," he said amiably.

"Hey, Greg. Jacqui."

Jacqui squirmed a little at the boss' arrival, but Grissom merely smiled at her. He didn't have a problem with people taking some time off at the break room -even if this included having some questionable reading material present.

Technically, you weren't supposed to keep tabloid magazines in your working area or anywhere else in the lab. But after Greg's magazine collection helped them break the Tom Havilland case, Grissom (and the other supervisors), had begun to appreciate the value of unconventional reading materials.

Since then, the rules had loosened up a bit. As long as the magazines didn't offer antagonistic views on the police and the law in general, you could pretty much read anything.

Right now, it was the Oscars coverage that had Jacqui's complete attention. Grissom didn't have to look at the magazine to know that; he'd been there when Greg bought the magazines not quite an hour before.

Gil smiled to himself. He found this trait of Greg's especially amusing. The young man had a wide-range of interests and more depth than anyone could even suspect, but there was no denying that tabloid reporting held an inordinate appeal for him.

Grissom didn't mind. In fact, he found it soothing. There were times when his work as Supervisor threatened to take over his every waking hour and he desperately needed a diversion; suddenly, there was Greg pointing at some celebrity's clothes and making him laugh.

But tonight, Jacqui was the one making the comments.

"Really, he needs some plastic surgery, don't you think?"

"Who?" Greg asked again, leaning across the table to take a peek, "Ah, Michael Douglas," he said, nodding knowingly.

"His wife's in her early thirties," Jacqui said in a disapproving tone, "He's like 60!"

"He looks it," Greg said dryly before returning to his Star magazine; he was reading an article on Pink, his favorite female artist.

Just then, someone paged Jacqui and she had to leave. Greg continued reading.

Grissom took Jacqui's chair and sat. He eyed the magazine that she had been looking at. Michael Douglas was on the cover, looking good for a sixty-year-old guy.

At least, Grissom thought so.

"You know," Gil said after a moment, "That's probably what I'm gonna look like in ten years."

Greg glanced at him.

"What?"

"I'm fifty," Grissom said, "So, in ten years I'm gonna look like that," and he tilted his head in the magazine's direction.

Greg's eyebrows rose.

"You're gonna look like _Michael Douglas_?"

Grissom smiled.

"You know what I mean," he said.

Greg looked at Grissom and then he looked down at the magazine.

"Well…"

"I'm going to be sixty, Greg."

"Yeah," Greg said slowly. "So?"

Grissom shrugged.

"So, I thought I should point that out to you."

"And so you did," Greg said. "I like older guys, you know." He added after a moment, "They're more -"

"Grateful?" Gil smiled.

"Actually, yes," Greg said, smiling back, "They _are_ grateful." He looked curiously at Gil, "Where are you going with this? It's not like we didn't talk about this before. I said I didn't have a problem."

"I know," Gil said, "It's just… There's no denying that in ten years you're gonna be forty -"

"Yes…"

"And you're probably gonna look as good as you look today -"

"Hopefully…"

"While I'm gonna be _sixty._" Gil finished.

Greg considered this for a moment and then he smiled widely.

"Aw, I know what this is all about," he said, "You're worried that I'm gonna regret this." And he pulled the chain he was wearing under his clothes. There was a gold band pending from it.

"It's a concern," Grissom said reasonably.

"There's nothing to worry about, Grissom," Greg said confidently. But Gil was still looking at him, as if he needed more reassurance, "What, you don't believe me? Ok," he added, leaning forward, "Just tell me this. Are you still gonna do that twisty thing you sometimes do with your tongue when we kiss?"

Gil paused and then he nodded.

"Yes."

"And are you still gonna do that thing you do with your index finger when you -"

Grissom flushed.

"Yes, Greg," he said abruptly, "I'm still gonna do that."

Greg repressed a smile.

"And are you still gonna surprise me now and then with some completely unpredictable behavior that will make me wonder if I know you at all -while making me love you all the more for it?"

Grissom actually paused this time. He didn't want to make promises he couldn't keep.

"I can try," he offered.

"Then there's nothing to worry about," Greg said confidently.

Grissom smiled at this.

"Ok," he said, and he rose from his seat. He was taking his cup to the sink when Greg spoke again.

"Besides… You're the closest I'll ever get to my fantasy man, anyway."

And there was so much wistfulness in those words that Grissom stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned.

"Fantasy man?" he asked.

"Sean Connery," Greg said sheepishly.

Gil raised one eyebrow.

"_Sean Connery?_ "

"Yeah. I've never said this to anyone but, hum, ever since I saw him in Red October -" he shrugged.

"Sean Connery," Grissom said again, as if the words were in some strange language he couldn't quite master.

"Yep."

Grissom didn't know what to say.

Greg had a faraway look in his eyes as he added, "Bearded, grey-haired, honorable, smart -" he sighed, "Sexy as hell -"

This time, Grissom raised both eyebrows.

"Sean Connery?"

Greg shook his head.

"Gil Grissom," he said huskily.

He smiled at Gil and after a moment, the older man smiled back.

"All right," Gil said. And then, doing his best Connery impression, he added, "There's a body waiting for us, young Sanders."

"Ooooh, baby," Greg whispered and eagerly followed him out of the room.

* * *

THE END 


	14. BUNDLE OF TROUBLE

BUNDLE OF TROUBLE

A prequel to 'Bundle of Joy'. How did Greg convince Gil to get a dog?

The little note about Oscar Wilde was taken from the book 'Pox'.

* * *

Grissom sighed and opened his eyes. He was in Greg's bed, recovering from what could only be described as an extremely satisfying love-making session. His body was starting to cool off, and the beating of his heart was finally quieting down. For a brief moment he'd wondered if he would survive –so intense was his body's reaction.

But survive he did, although it would take him a while to muster enough energy to move -not that he had any intention of doing so. He had the day off, and he was quite willing to spend it in bed… Unless Greg had other plans, in which case some compromise would have to be reached.

Speaking of Greg, the younger man was right next to him, probably just as worn-out. He certainly wasn't moving and, judging by his slow, even breathing, he had probably fallen asleep.

Grissom wished he could turn and take a look. There was something deeply gratifying about watching Greg fall asleep after sex. It did wonders for his own ego, to see the satisfied smile on the young man's lips as he drifted off.

But Gil was too tired to do even that. All he could see from his spot on the bed was the garish artwork on the walls, somewhat softened by the moonlight, and part of an open window. Gil turned his gaze to the starry night sky.

'Thank you, Lord,' he muttered. He wasn't a Catholic anymore but he still prayed now and then. As prayers go, this was about the shortest, but it was all he could manage.

He was too tired to move, too tired to think…

He was growing drowsy… He was not going to fight sleep…

He closed his eyes.

And then -

"Ever thought of getting married, Grissom?"

Grissom's eyes opened abruptly.

For a moment, he wondered whether he'd only dreamed those words. When no further question was posed, he closed his eyes again.

He felt the bed dip under Greg's weight. Gil didn't have to look to know that was merely turning on his side. His bony knees brushed against Gil's thigh.

Gil didn't mind Greg's pointy knees -or elbows- poking at him during sleep. He could take anything. He was so tired…

"Gil? You awake?"

Grissom paused for a moment and then he acknowledged the question with a noncommittal, "Hmmm?"

"Ever thought of getting married?"

When Grissom didn't reply, Greg gently poked him with a knee.

"Hey," he said softly.

Grissom reluctantly opened his eyes.

"What?"

"You didn't hear me?"

Grissom glanced at Greg. For a guy who ought to be exhausted, Greg looked too perky -irritatingly so.

Gil wanted to turn his back on that smug face but he just couldn't move. All he could do was pull the sheet until it covered his face.

"Good night, Greg." he mumbled.

He should have known the sheet would not stop Greg. The young man simply pulled it down.

"Hey," Greg greeted, "You haven't answered my -"

Grissom sighed.

"Greg, I'm tired -"

"Pleasantly tired, I hope," Greg said, smiling.

Grissom smiled back but didn't say anything. He glanced away and after a moment he closed his eyes again.

It looked like Gil was really falling asleep, but he was not. Just as Greg was about to poke at him again, Gil chuckled softly.

"What?" Greg asked.

"I was thinking." Gil said, "Did you know that Oscar Wilde designed his bride's wedding dress?"

"I didn't even know he had a _bride_," Greg replied. "But did he, really? Design the dress, I mean."

"Yeah. The bridesmaids' too."

"Hmmm. That's interesting," Greg acknowledged, "All of a sudden, I picture him acting like one of the Five Fab, telling his bride how to wear the dress. How ironic." Greg smiled. Then he poked at Gil again. "But you still haven't answered my question."

Gil sighed. Clearly, Greg wasn't going to leave him alone till he got an answer.

Gil shook his head.

"I never thought of getting married."

"Never, ever?"

Gil shook his head.

"It wouldn't be fair, marrying a woman while knowing all along that you're gay."

"No, it wouldn't. But I wasn't talking about marrying a woman, Gil. I was wondering if you'd ever wanted to marry a _man_."

Gil opened one eye.

"Guys aren't allowed to get married."

"So?"

"So, if men aren't allowed to get married, why would I even -"

"Actually, you can get married in Canada," Greg interjected, "Or you can have a civil union ceremony in New Hampshire. Nowadays, you can have a commitment ceremony in practically every city in the US -"

"Nothing like that existed when I was young -er." He added the last syllable almost as an afterthought.

"It does now," Greg said, looking closely at Gil. When Gil didn't comment, he added, "Let me put it this way: If guys were allowed to get married in Las Vegas, would you do it?"

Grissom gulped. He opened his mouth but couldn't manage a reply.

"Well?" Greg prompted.

Gil answered reluctantly –not because he lacked the conviction, but because it was something he didn't want to discuss.

"I don't believe in marriage."

"You don't? How come?"

There were lots of reasons; Gil just didn't want to talk about them.

"I've just never thought about it much," Gil shrugged. "I used to think people should only get married if they wanted to have kids. And since _I_ don't want to have kids -"

Greg's eyebrows arched in surprise.

"Wow," he said, "That takes care of my second question."

Gil looked up sharply.

"_You_ want to have kids?"

"Well, yeah," Greg said matter-of-factly.

Grissom was too stunned to speak but Greg didn't seem to notice. He seemed lost in his own thoughts.

"I like kids," he said, "People have always said I'd make a great parent one day. And starting a family is a sign that one's serious about a relationship, right? A real commitment." He threw a glance at Gil, "What do you think?"

Grissom couldn't believe he was having this conversation. It seemed like a dream. A bad one.

"Greg," he said at last, "Raising a child is -"

"- something you don't want to do." Greg finished.

Grissom turned on his side to take a better look at Greg. It was hard to tell whether Greg was disappointed or not. He was simply looking back at Grissom, as if waiting for some further explanation.

Gil didn't know where to begin.

"I never thought about having kids," he said, "I didn't even think about being in a relationship, in the first place."

"Well, what about now?" Greg asked, "Would you consider it?"

Grissom hesitated. The answer was right on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't simply blurt it out. It should look like he was truly thinking it over.

"Greg," he started, "I don't think I'd be a good parent. I wouldn't have the time."

Greg stared at him, waiting.

"I can't do it," Grissom said.

Greg nodded slowly. He looked away and after a moment, he lay back down again. He looked at the ceiling in silence.

Grissom studied Greg's profile closely, trying to read the young man's expression. He didn't seem sad –that was a relief. Gil didn't want to hurt Greg's feelings.

"You're ok with it?" he asked, just to make sure.

"Sure," Greg replied morosely. "It's not like I have an option."

After a moment, Grissom turned away and looked at the ceiling too.

He couldn't believe he'd just had this conversation. He'd honestly thought that being with Greg –or any guy, for that matter- would preclude the discussion of parenthood. By bringing up the subject, Greg had just put a damper in what had been -till now- the best relationship Grissom had ever had.

The only relationship he'd ever had, that is.

"I just wish -" Greg said suddenly.

"What?"

Greg opened his mouth but he didn't say anything. He only shook his head.

"Nah, it's nothing," he muttered dismissively.

"Just say it, Greg."

Greg glanced at him.

"Well, I was thinking about commitment -"

Grissom's heart skipped a beat. He gulped.

"You mean -" Gil faltered, "A ceremony of sorts?"

"Huh?" Greg frowned. "Oh. No, I wasn't thinking of a ceremony. Why?" he glanced at Gil again, "Were _you_ thinking of a ceremony?"

"No," Grissom said abruptly. "I was not."

Greg smiled faintly at this but he was careful not to let Grissom notice.

"I was thinking we should do something together," Greg said.

"Do something?"

"Yeah. We could get a pet, for instance."

Gil began to breath more easily. This wasn't so bad.

"We already have a maggot farm," he said confidently.

Greg gave him a look.

"It's _your_ maggot farm, Gil. And maggots are kinda boring; all they do is eat and grow inside their cocoons. I'd like a more responsive pet, thank you very much."

"They're clean pets," Gil pointed out.

"Well, _I_ like messy pets," Greg replied. "I don't mind cleaning after them. All it takes is a few sheets of newspaper, a little bleach in the worst cases -"

"Bleach?"

"You never had a dog or a cat?"

"My mom was allergic. And I never had much time to take care of a cat or a dog, anyway. I started working at twelve, you know."

"Really? I didn't know that. Aw," Greg said, patting Gil's arm, "You missed out a lot by not having a pet."

"I did have pets; I had an ant farm."

Greg scowled.

"You can't compare a dog to an ant farm," Greg scowled. "Dogs do stuff. I always had a dog while I was growing up," he said wistfully, "The last one I had kept me company while I was in New York -Mr. Dimples. It was the ugliest mutt in the world," he smiled. "I had to leave him behind when I came to Las Vegas. My cousins still have him."

He sighed.

"I miss having a dog." He said, a faraway look in his eyes. "I like having a little fella jumping on me and licking my face -"

"Actually -"

"I know, Grissom," Greg glared, "_You_ can do that. But that's not the point."

"Greg, if we had a dog -"

"It wouldn't be as emotionally draining as raising a child," Greg offered.

"Not, but it would still be a -"

"- huge responsibility," Greg finished. He turned on his side again and fixed a penetrating gaze on Gil, "Didn't you ever fantasized about having a dog, Gil?"

"No," Grissom said quickly.

Too quickly.

Greg looked at him with interest.

"No?" he asked, "You never imagined holding a warm creature in your lap, scratching its belly, tickling it -" and just as Grissom was about to speak, Greg glared again, "Yes, Gil, I know you've hold me on your lap and scratched my belly too! But that's not the point!"

It was Grissom turn to smile. It was funny, how Greg kept guessing what he was going to say every time he opened his mouth. Greg knew him well.

But Gil knew him, too.

"I know what you're doing."

Greg narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, really," he said skeptically.

"Yes, really," Gil replied.

Greg smiled back.

"So?" he asked.

"So, I'm gonna think about it," Gil said.

Greg kept his gaze on Gil for a moment. Whatever he saw must have convinced him of Gil's goodwill.

"Thanks," Greg said simply. "Now, let's sleep."

Greg pulled the sheets around them and then he tentatively put an arm around Gil. Grissom pulled him closer, and for a while they lay together in silence.

And then, a whisper.

"Hey, Grissom? If you say yes, then I have the perfect dog. A tiny lab. Nobody wants the poor girl. If we take her, we'll be saving her life."

"A lab?"

"And since you have all that space in your backyard -"

"_My_ backyard?"

"My apartment's too small, Gil. It would be ok if we got a Chihuahua or a miniature poodle, but somehow I don't picture you as a miniature-dog kind of guy. A lab, on the other hand -"

Grissom was going to say he wasn't a lab kind of guy either but didn't. He worked at a lab, after all. Maybe it was an omen?

Gil shook his head. That last thought made no sense. Maybe lack of sleep was starting to affect him; otherwise, how to explain that all of a sudden the idea of having a dog seemed perfectly reasonable?

"A lab," he said.

"Yep."

Gil nodded thoughtfully. Labs were noble creatures. And handling a dog would certainly be easier than handling a kid. And maybe –just maybe- if he consented to this, Greg would eventually forget all about 'commitment' ceremonies and parenthood -

Gil paused. He threw a suspicious glance at Greg.

"You planned all this from the beginning, didn't you?"

Greg was smug.

"I've seen the animal shelter newsletter you get every month. I knew you'd cave in sooner or later. At least," he added, "I was hoping you would."

"You could have just said you wanted a dog, you know."

"Oh, no," Greg replied, "No way. When I deal with Gil Grissom, the CSI Supervisor, I gotta be direct; but when I deal with Gil Grissom, the boyfriend… I gotta be sneaky."

"Sneaky?"

"Oh, yeah. Remember how I got you to finally admit that you loved me?"

Grissom paused for a moment.

"Ah, yes. You were very sneaky, indeed."

"See?"

"And what if I had said I wanted a kid, Mr. Smartass?"

"I would have gone along with that, too." He glanced at Gil, "I like kids. But the truth is, at the end of the day I'm glad they're other people's. I'd rather be a 'cool uncle' or a 'cool cousin' than a 'clueless dad.'"

"So you'll settle for a dog."

"Our dog."

Grissom smiled. He liked the sound of that.

He took a deep breath and then closed his eyes. But before he could fall asleep, Greg spoke again, his words distorted by sleep and by the fact that his cheek was flat on Gil's chest.

"By the way…" He muttered, "Nana Olaf left me her wedding ring."

Gil's eyes opened abruptly again.

"So," Greg continued, "In case you're ever interested... It's yours."

* * *

THE END


	15. PEACHES AND COFFEE

Coffe and Peaches

Sudden inspiration struck while I was at the supermarket today...

* * *

Warrick entered the break room, attracted by the heady scent of newly-brewed coffee. Nick was already there, looking expectantly at the coffee maker. Standing by, with a stern look on his face, was Greg. 

"Come on, it's ready," Nick said.

"Not yet," Greg said, "You've gotta let it breathe. Here," he added, picking an apple from a nearby bowl of fruit, "Eat this." He glanced at Warrick, "And if you want some, you better take a seat."

Warrick obeyed. He knew better than to argue; when Greg brewed Blue Hawaiian, he was the boss.

The only one who could hurry Greg and get away with it was the boss himself, Gil Grissom, who, coincidentally, was entering the break room just then.

"Hey, Greg?" Gil said, "You said you'd have my DNA samples ready before midnight."

"Gee, Grissom, I'm sorry," Greg said, "I miscalculated. I had some samples from Catherine that I had to take care of first. But yours are my next priority."

"Well, get to it."

"I will. I just need a minute, here. It's Blue Hawaiian; we ought to let it -"

"Yeah, yeah," Gil interrupted, "'You ought to let it breathe so the bitterness is less concentrated, blah, blah'. Just pour it and go."

"But I can't just pour it, Grissom. This is a five-dollar cup I'm giving you, here. It's my hard-earned money we're talking about, so the least you can do is wait. Here, let me give you something -" he turned to the fruit bowl again. When he turned, there was a ripe peach in his hand.

"Here, look at this," Greg said to no one in particular. "See the perfect roundness, the tantalizing cleft, the rosy color?" he held the fruit on the palm of his hand for all to see, "Ever seen such a perfect combination of form, color and texture?" he glanced around, "Isn't it amazing how a peach can become the source of such sweet pleasures...?"

Warrick raised his eyebrows in surprise. He'd never heard Greg rhapsodize about fruit before. He turned to Grissom to see his reaction, only to discover that the older man was flushing to the roots of his hair.

Visibly uncomfortable, Grissom glared at Greg.

"Just pour the damn coffee and get back to work," he growled before leaving the room.

Greg gazed after Grissom's retreating form until it was out of sight, then blinked as if waking from a dream.

"Well! I better go back to work. Nick? You're in charge now," he said in a business-like manner. "Wait five minutes, then pour. Just don't hurry the process, ok? Oh, and don't forget to take a cup to Grissom."

And he hurried to his lab.

"What was that?" Warrick asked after Greg left.

"What was what?" Nick asked, his attention back to the coffee urn again.

"Didn't you see? Greg's weird-ass speech about a peach made Grissom blush for some reason."

"Oh, that," Nick said in an amused tone, "Yeah, I noticed."

"And?"

"Well," Nick said in a lowered tone, "Greg once told me that Grissom's ass is shaped like a peach. In fact, 'peach' is Greg's pet name for it."

"Oh," Warrick said. He was silent for a moment, then he glanced at Nick, "How come you never give me pet names anymore?"

* * *

THE END 


	16. Sunday Afternoon

Sunday Afternoon

Just a fluffy conversation. 

A sequel to 'Bundle of Joy' and 'Bundle of Trouble.'

* * *

"That bitch loves you more than me."

Grissom looked up from his book, wondering if he'd heard correctly. It wasn't like Greg to make a harsh comment like this.

And Greg didn't look like he'd made that comment, either. He was comfortably lying on a deck chair, his arms folded under his head, a placid smile on his lips. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, so for a moment Grissom wasn't even sure if he was awake.

"Greg?"

"Mmmn?"

"Did you just say something?"

"That bitch," Greg said, his head tilting sideways. "She loves you more than me."

Grissom smiled and glanced at the creature sitting beside him. She was a bitch, indeed. Truddy was their lab dog, and right now she was giving him one of those adoring looks of hers.

Gil put his book down and leant over.

"Do you love me, Truddy?" he asked, and the dog lowered her head a little, her ears flattening back in submission.

"See?" Greg said. "She never looks at me that way."

"She's just acknowledging me as the Alpha dog in this family," Gil said smugly.

Greg snorted.

"Ha. Yeah, right," he muttered, then he added under his breath, "I bet she wouldn't look at him that way if he had to wash her and cut her toenails -"

"It's your own fault, you know," Grissom said, picking up his book again.

"My fault? Why is it my fault?"

"You're always talking to her like in that wacky tone of yours. She's not a parrot, you know."

Greg frowned.

"You know… That might be it," he said slowly. "You talk to her as if she were a human being." He looked up, "Come to think of it, you do that to kids, too."

"Kids are human beings, Greg."

"What I mean is, you talk to them as if they're _grown-up _human beings." Greg took off his glasses and put them on a nearby table, "Kids are in awe of you, you know. Karen's kids, for instance, sit quietly and look at you with wonder in their eyes, whenever you read to them."

"That's only because Karen told them I was Santa Claus' alter ego," Gil glared.

Greg's body shook with laughter.

"They believed it, too," he said. "You'd better come up with some swell presents this year,  
Santa."

Grissom gave him one last look, then turned back to his book. He was conscious of Greg's eyes on him, however, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the young man spoke again.

"What are you getting me, by the way?" Greg asked. "Not a lump of coal, I hope."

Gil shook his head.

"With all those hints you've been dropping, I know exactly what you want."

"Did you buy it already?"

"No. Whatever I buy today will be obsolete in two months. I'll wait till December."

"But you don't want to leave it to the last minute, either, Grissom."

"I'm not going to leave it to the last minute."

Greg was silent for a moment, then he spoke again.

"I've already bought you your present," he said.

Gil didn't reply.

"Wanna know what I got you?"

Gil didn't even look up.

"No," he said.

"Are you sure?" Greg said in a teasing tone, "I could give you a hint."

"I don't want a hint."

"It's a big gift," Greg said. "Huge."

"I don't want to know."

"Truddy's already seen it." Then, in a slightly high-pitched tone Greg added, "Right, Truddy?"

Truddy wagged her tail but didn't move.

"Yep." Greg continued, "It's a big gift. Boy, are you gonna love it -"

Grissom put his book down.

"Greg?" he asked, "Unless you want us to exchange gifts on Halloween, don't say another word."

Greg looked curiously at Grissom.

"You want to be surprised?"

"Exactly."

Greg smiled.

"All right, Gil. Not another word. Come Christmas morning, you'll get the surprise of your life."

* * *

THE END 


	17. Heartbroken

Heartbroken

When Warrick got married, Catherine wasn't the only one with a broken heart.

This little scene takes place right after the guys took Warrick out for a drink, (was it in Bodies in Motion???).

Technically, this isn't a GG story. It's a version of a longer story I'm writing -yet another of my WIPs, (except that I'm not gonna post any chapter till I'm sure I have the complete story ;D )

* * *

Grissom stood at the parking lot of the Hudson Grill Restaurant, watching as Warrick and Nick got into their cars. They'd come to the Grill to celebrate Warrick's marriage -a delayed bachelor's party, so to speak, with the male members of the night shift taking part in it. Unfortunately, the celebration had been cut short after a call from the bride, who clearly didn't appreciate being deserted in what was her first night off in weeks.

Gil wasn't sorry to see the party break sooner than anticipated; in his experience, parties like these usually ended up with one or all of the participants getting drunk, and he didn't relish the prospect of having to haul inebriated coworkers back to their homes.

Which reminded him of the reason he'd stayed behind.

He nodded casually as Nick and then Warrick drove away, and then he looked back at Hudson's Grill.

"Ah, Greg," he sighed. He'd seen the young man sneaking back into the restaurant instead of driving away like the others, and Gil had an idea why.

Gil started back to the restaurant.

---

He found Greg sitting at the bar, looking at a shot of Tequila the bartender had just set in front of him. There were several empty shots surrounding him already.

Gil sat on the next stool.

"Hey," he said.

Greg had a little trouble focusing his eyes on Grissom. He was taken aback.

"What are you doing here?"

"I saw you coming back," Gil said, "I thought I'd keep you some company."

Greg glanced away, clearly uncomfortable.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know," Gil said gently.

Greg hesitated, then he took the glass and emptied it in one gulp. He reluctantly glanced at Grissom again.

"So, you're gonna drink something?"

Gil ordered a glass of mineral water. Greg ordered more Tequila.

Grissom cleared his throat.

"I know it's difficult," he said tentatively. Then he added, "I _know_," and this time he hoped Greg would understand what he meant.

He _knew_, just by observing Greg tonight. He noticed the sad looks, the forced smiles…

He knew that Greg was in love with Warrick.

Greg quickly grasped Gil's meaning. He looked at Grissom... and then he looked away. He nodded at the bartender, who nodded back and immediately brought him another shot.

Grissom didn't intervene; not yet. He was there to offer support, not to criticize. He didn't even know if Greg wanted to talk. In fact, he was hoping Greg would not say anything. Frankly, this was not the kind of problem he was used to deal with.

Greg took a deep breath then.

"I knew he was straight," he blurted out. "I mean, I wasn't that stupid; I knew he'd never -you know. But still, I -" he shook his head.

"And still, you dreamed," Gil finished gently.

Greg snorted.

"Yeah, right," he said bitterly. "I dreamed that somehow he'd… That he'd…" He couldn't finish the phrase.His lips trembled, and this made him angry, "What a loser, right?" he said. He waved at the bartender, who hesitated and glanced at Grissom. Gil nodded almost imperceptibly.

Greg downed the new shot in one gulp. He grimaced and leant on the bar for support.

"It's not like I expected him to change," he said softly. "It's just -" he shook his head, "He's a good guy, Grissom. I don't meet good guys too often."

Gil nodded noncommittally.

Greg was going to say more, but before he did, he realized the antique jukebox at the bar was playing a new song; a sad tune by the Bee Gees.

_How can you mend this broken man?  
How can a loser ever win?  
Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again. _

"Oh, for God' sake," Greg groaned. "What is this, losers' night?"

Grissom smiled.

"What, you don't like the Bee Gees?"

Greg glared at him, but the anger quickly dissolved as the song continued.

_And how can you mend a broken heart?  
How can you stop the rain from falling down? _

Greg practically crumbled.

"Oh, shit," he sighed. "I'm lonely, Grissom," he added, as if he were drained of all energy.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gil saw the bartender shake his head in amusement. To Gil there was nothing amusing about the situation. He didn't like to see his colleague suffer like this.

"It'll pass, Greg," he said gently. "Some day, you're gonna -" but Gil didn't finish the phrase. He was going to say that some day Greg would find someone else, but right now, the last thing Greg needed was to hear his boss' platitudes.

"Maybe you should go home," he said instead.

"No," Greg said with determination. "Don't want to go home. Need more booze. I need to... I need to dull the pain."

"To dull the pain?" Gil repeated. Hearing this made him realize it was time to stop coddling the young man, "You've started to sound like a Bee Gees' song," he teased.

"So, what?" Greg retorted. "Maybe that's what I should do; write a song. I'm gonna call it: 'CSI's lament,' how 'bout that?"

"Pathetic."

"It worked for the Bee Gees," Greg retorted. But the brief period of levity ended right there. He was still smiling but his eyes were full of pain. "It hurts," he said.

"I know."

"It broke my heart, you know?"

"I understand," Gil nodded.

Greg looked at Grissom for a moment. His smile was mischievous as he as spoke, "Hey, Grissom -"

"Yeah?"

"Can you mend my broken heart?"

Gil rolled his eyes and Greg actually started to laugh.

Gil raised his glass of mineral water. Just before he took a sip he said, in a whisper only he could hear, "I wish I could."

* * *

THE END 


	18. Gil's Secret Part One

Gil's secret

Spoiler: Play with Fire (when Greg's lab explodes)

* * *

"There goes our unsung hero." 

The words were uttered just as Greg was about to dig into his piping-hot noodle soup.

He hesitated, then looked up; Hodges was standing by the coffee machine, looking at something in the hallway and acting as if he hadn't said anything.

Greg hated it when Hodges did this -say something clearly designed to get your attention only to shut up and refuse to elaborate till you begged him. And then, when you finally got him to talk, all you got was a long, rambling monologue that seemed to be about anything except the matter that got your attention in the first place.

Greg consistently refused to take the bait, however, and this time it was no different; he picked his spoon again and determinedly dunk it into the soup.

He kept his gaze down… but not for long. Like it or not, Hodges' comments always piqued his interest. He just had to know what the comment was all about. He raised his gaze as casually as he could, only to discover that the object of Hodges' comment seemed to be Gil Grissom, their boss, who had briefly stopped to check out something on a clipboard.

Greg forgot all about Hodges and the food then; instead, he took a leisurely look at Gil, who looked pretty good for someone who was well into his second shift in a row.

Actually, Gil _always_ looked good.

But there was more to him than mere looks, as Greg would have pointed out to anyone -if anyone had asked, (or maybe not even then; Greg was just too discreet to start spilling the beans about his appreciation for Gil). Anyway, the point was that not only did Gil look good, he _was_ a good guy through and through. Really, you could trust him for anything. No matter how grave your problem or how heavy his workload, Gil was there for you, with energy to spare.

Greg smiled to himself. Yes, Grissom had energy to spare, and lately he'd been bestowing much of that energy on a young man -Greg Sanders himself.

Greg sighed contentedly. These past months had been really good; he never thought that being with Grissom could be so good, so fulfilling, so-

But Greg's pleasant daydream was abruptly cut short when he recalled why he'd looked outside in the first place: Hodges. Hodges was looking at Gil; ergo, Hodges was talking _about_ Gil.

Greg frowned for a moment, then he put his spoon down. He'd seen Hodges try to suck-up to Gil, and he'd seen him try to get Gil's attention; this, however, was the first time he'd actually made a comment _about_ Gil.

Greg sighed. Much as he hated to take part in Hodges' little games, this time he would have to.

"Unsung hero?" he asked with some irritation.

Hodges stepped away from the door. He leant on Greg's table and lowered his voice.

"Did you know that Gil Grissom is going to a charity event tomorrow night?"

Greg frowned. He did know -of course, he did; he was Gil's _boyfriend, _for God's sake -but no one else was supposed to know. So why did David Hodges know?

"Says who?" Greg asked cautiously.

"I do," Hodges said, looking inordinately smug. "A friend of mine told me. She heard it from a friend, who in turn heard it from another friend..." he let the word trail off. "You get the idea."

"So?"

"Well, this friend also told me Grissom has been attending this event for ten years, now."

"So? What's the big deal about that?" Greg shrugged, careful not to sound too eager. When it came to Hodges and gossip, the worst you could do was show him how much you wanted to know. In fact, the more you begged him to go ahead, the more he refused to continue.

Greg's apparent lack of interest did the trick.

"Well, this is no mere ball, you know," Hodges said quickly, "This is the Garson and Crowley's annual Charity Ball. They invite only _la crème de la crème_ in Vegas society -"

Greg rolled his eyes.

"Anyone with a buck, you mean."

"Oh, no," Hodges replied, "You can have big money and still not get an invitation. Not even the under sheriff is on their list. But Grissom is." Hodges paused, then smiled, "And do you know why?"

"Well," Greg started, "Gil -I mean, Grissom is a respected member of the -"

"Oh, please," Hodges scoffed. "That's got nothing to do with it." He lowered his voice even more, "Don't tell this to anyone, but Grissom..." and this time he even glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one else was hearing, "He's got a thing going with the widow of one of the founders -a Mrs. Crowley. And by 'thing', I mean -" he smiled faintly, "Well, you know what I mean."

"No way," Greg blurted out.

"Way," Hodges nodded, "A friend of a friend of a friend -"

Greg cut in indignantly, "Grissom would never -"

"Wouldn't he?" smiled Hodges, "Of course he would. This friend tells me Grissom is getting something from Mrs. Crowley. She's rich, so -"

"Oh, come on," Greg groaned, "You don't think she's paying him!"

"Of course not," Hodges said calmly. "Money means nothing for our boss. But there's something he covets nevertheless." He paused. He waited for Greg to say something but the young man seemed too shaken to speak. Miraculously, Hodges didn't need any prompting to add, "He covets equipment."

"Equipment?"

Hodges nodded.

"Lab equipment. Every year, Garson and Crowley donates something to the lab. Something new, something expensive... Something we would never get were it not for Grissom. Our Unsung Hero," and this time there was even a touch of reverence in Hodges' voice.

But Greg was shaking his head. Yes, Grissom would do anything for the lab, but he wouldn't stoop this low. True, he didn't know Gil that well -after all, they'd been together only a few months now- and if anyone could keep a secret, it was Gil...

But not this!

"Grissom would never -"

"There's nothing he wouldn't do for the lab, my young, naive friend," Hodges said, then he turned serious, "But listen. You can't tell this to anybody, understood? I told you, because you're the least likely to make a big deal of it."

Hodges straightened up. "We, men of the world, see things differently," he said smugly, "But Warrick and Nick would get all righteous and judgmental if they knew. Catherine and Sara..." he rolled his eyes and didn't finish. "You, on the other hand, are the youngest here. Your feelings aren't that involved in the matter."

And with those words, he parted.

* * *

TBC 


	19. GIL'S SECRET part two

Gil's secret

Part two

Spoiler: Play with Fire (when Greg's lab explodes) and Formalities.

* * *

Grissom looked in the mirror for what was -for him- an inordinately long amount of time. He wasn't looking at his face, though; he was looking at the black silk bow-tie gracing his neck.

"No," he muttered at last, "It's still not right," and he decisively pulled the flaps and undid the knot.

Again.

He'd been struggling with this tie for some time now. With his tongue firmly held between his teeth, and his eyes darting from his neck to the 'how-to' diagram he'd stuck on the mirror, Gil had been folding, pulling and pinching the tie, only to find that somewhere along the line he'd missed some important step.

He didn't seem to mind, though. This inability of him didn't frustrate him or made him impatient. On the contrary; it seemed he was viewing it as a challenge -and he loved challenges.

It was Greg who was at the end of his tether.

He'd been sitting on the edge of the bed for over an hour now, following Gil's every move as he got ready for the party.

Outwardly, Greg looked very calm, as if he actually enjoyed watching his boyfriend get ready to go out with somebody else. Inwardly, it was another matter. For the last 60 minutes or so, he'd been struggling not to voice the snide comments that kept popping in his mind -which wasn't easy, considering that everything Gil did seemed especially designed to piss him off -first, by taking way too much time trimming his beard, then by putting on his very best shirt and a rented tuxedo (a _tuxedo_!), and finally, by shining the black shoes he wore only on very special occasions.

No, it hadn't been easy, and yet Greg had somehow remained mum through it all. But when he saw Gil undo his tie -a _bow tie_, for God's sake- he knew he'd had enough.

It was Hodges' fault, Greg thought morosely. If Hodges hadn't told him about Mrs. Crowley, none of this would be happening. If Hodges hadn't opened his big, gossipy mouth, Greg would have teased Gil about the party and the clothes, and he would have generally had a great time.

Instead, he was growing impatient and angry.

It's not that he actually believed Hodges' story -of course not. Not really. But the story had inevitably piqued Greg's curiosity. A Google research on Mrs. Crowley had led nowhere, however, and after a couple of hours all he had was a brief bio and little else. No pictures from past events, nothing that gave him an inkling of who she was or what she looked like. There were suggestions of extreme shyness and agoraphobia, but nothing concrete.

The lady was lady was very secretive.

But then, so was Grissom.

Looking at Gil try yet again to tie his precious bow tie, Greg took a deep breath. He didn't want to blow this relationship, but he couldn't go on like this either; he needed answers.

It made sense, too: Hodges had opened a can of worms, so it seemed only proper that an Entomologist should clean up the mess.

Greg cleared his throat.

"So," he started, "This woman you're going out with -"

"Mrs. Andrew Crowley," Gil supplied, his eyes fixed on the mirror.

" - she asked you out."

"She sent me an invitation, yes."

Greg waited for Gil to offer more information, but the older man's attention was still on the tie.

"Why don't you just put on a necktie?" Greg said morosely.

"You can't wear a necktie with a tuxedo," Gil said without missing a beat.

Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Since when do you care about fashion ?"

"I don't," Gil shrugged, "But Mrs. Crowley does."

Greg stared at Grissom for a moment.

"I think I got it," Gil said suddenly . He turned so Greg could see the tie. When Greg didn't comment, he was crestfallen. "Not good?"

"It's ok," Greg shrugged without even looking. He didn't care about the tie. "So," he said again, "This woman... You must know her well, right?" But before Gil answered, he added, "I mean, not everyone gets an invitation for this gala. Not even the under sheriff -"

"I don't know about that," Grissom said, finally tearing himself away from the mirror. He crossed the room, stopping only to drop a kiss on Greg's nose.

Greg started to smile, then stopped. Something in the trail of scent left by Gil caught his attention.

"You're wearing cologne!"

Gil glanced over his shoulder.

"You don't like it?"

"You never wear cologne!"

"I do, occasionally."

"To please Mrs. Crowley?"

Gil didn't reply; he was busy looking for something at the back of his sock drawer. Finally, he found it; a small box.

Greg raised his eyebrows; he knew what was inside that box.

"Cuff links? Since when do you wear cuff links?"

"I'm wearing a -"

"Yeah, yeah," Greg interrupted, "You're wearing a tuxedo. Boy," He said, shaking his head, "You're really getting all spruced up for this date, aren't you?"

"It's not a date."

"Oh, really," Greg replied skeptically. "You rented a tuxedo; you're wearing your best shirt and the only pair of cuff-links you own." He paused, then he added spitefully, "I'm surprised you didn't buy a corsage for her."

The observation was lost on Gil, who'd never gone to a prom in his life.

"A corsage?" he repeated, sincerely puzzled. "Why would I do that?" When Greg didn't reply, he addressed the young man's earlier comment, "It's not a date," he said as he reached for his black shoes, "I'm merely _escorting_ Mrs. Crowley to this event."

Gil winced as he put on the shoes. They were obviously uncomfortable… but they looked good with the tuxedo.

"So," Greg said, "You're just going to have dinner and that's it -right?"

"Dinner and a few extras," Grissom said, and for some reason he found this very funny.

"Extras?" Greg repeated, "What kind of extras? "

"Like dancing, for instance -"

Greg's eyes widened.

"DANCING? But you don't -"

"Exactly," Gil smiled, "We're not Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers; basically, we just step on each other's feet."

Greg didn't find this amusing.

"What, you haven't learned to dance after escorting this lady for the past ten years?"

Grissom looked up.

"How did you know I've been escorting her for the past ten years?"

"I heard," Greg said evasively.

"Heard from whom?" Gil asked, turning his full attention on Greg.

Greg squirmed under Gil 's gaze.

"Hodges," he mumbled uncomfortably. "He heard something from a friend who'd heard it from another friend -"

"And?"

Greg hesitated. He and Grissom had been together for only a few months now; he didn't know how far he could dig into this man's private life. He didn't want to mess things up.

He gulped.

"Well," he said, "They say..." He paused for a moment, and then, looking at Gil in the eye he added, "They say that every year, right after this gala, she makes some big gift to the lab. New equipment... Costly improvements..."

Gil nodded.

"Well, she owns a fifty-one percent of Garson and Crowley," he said casually.

"So it's true?" Greg asked, eyes big with incredulity and hurt.

"Well, how do you think I managed to replace your lab after the explosion?"

Greg's jaw dropped.

He was appalled at Grissom's calm response.

"You didn't mention her! " he protested, "You just said it was a gift!"

"And it was a gift." He frowned, "What's the problem?"

"The problem is, you're sleeping with this woman to get new equipment for the lab!"

"What?" It was Grissom's turn to be appalled, "I'm not sleeping with her!"

"Oh, really?" Greg scoffed, "Then how come she's been giving you all those gifts? Don't tell me it's mere charity."

Grissom stared at Greg for a moment.

"Well…"

"Well?" Greg prompted, more sternly now.

Gil took a deep breath.

"She's my aunt. Her name's Edith."

"Your aunt? " Greg frowned. "She's a Grissom?"

"No. She's my mother's sister. I'm her favorite nephew," he added reluctantly, "But I don't want anyone to know. Otherwise, I'd get hounded by petitions from the people at the lab. I don't want to abuse my aunt's good nature."

"Oh."

Grissom tilted his head, his eyes studying Greg's face.

"This is interesting." He said softly, "You let the green-eyed monster get a hold on you, didn't you?"

"What, me? No," Greg said quickly, "Of course, not." Never in a million years would he admit that he had been, in fact, been jealous of Gil's aunt. Never, ever.

But he could see Gil wasn't convinced.

"All right," Greg said reluctantly, "Maybe I did. For a couple of hours," he added, trying to make light of it. It did the trick; Gil smiled faintly. "So," Greg said, "Is it thanks to your aunt that I have the new…?" he didn't finish the phrase, but by the way his hands formed an easily recognizable shape in the air, Gil understood.

"Yes," Gil nodded.

"And what about the other…?"

"That, too."

"Wow," Greg said. He was silent for a moment, then he looked up, "In that case…" He rose from the bed and crossed the room. Once he was in front of Gil, he expertly rearranged the older man's bow tie until it looked perfect. "There," he said.

Gil looked in the closest mirror and touched his tie with something close to awe. He looked back at Greg.

"You knew how to do this?"

"I know lots of things," Greg replied smugly. "Not everything, though," he added, giving Gil a pointed look.

Gil nodded. "I should have told you about my aunt."

"You thought that if I knew I'd start asking you for all sorts of equipment, right?" Greg asked, "You thought I'd take advantage of your relationship with this lady -"

Grissom kept his gaze on Greg.

"I guess I misjudged you," he said uncomfortably.

"You did," Greg said. "But it's ok," he added magnanimously. "After all… We haven't been together that long. Here," he added, picking Gil's jacket and holding it up so Gil could slide his arms into it. Greg took a step back to take a better look. "You look great," he said sincerely.

Greg was smiling, but he felt kinda let down. The truth was, he would have liked to go to this party. He would have loved to come along and see Gil Grissom on the dance floor, even if he wasn't Fred Astaire.

Grissom was patting on his pockets.

"I've got my invitation," he said, "I got my car keys -Oh, wait a minute," he added, "There's something I wanted to show you," and he opened the closet so Greg could take a look.

There was another tuxedo hanging in there. Greg frowned.

"What's that?"

"Your tuxedo."

"_My_ tuxedo?"

"You've got two hours to get ready," Gil said simply.

Greg gaped. He looked at the tuxedo and then at Gil and then at the tuxedo again. After a moment's hesitation, he reached inside the closet and touched the tuxedo, as if to make sure that it was real.

"I'm coming to the ball, then?" he asked incredulously.

"No, Cinderella," Gil said snidely, "You're not." Then, in a softer tone, he added, "You're coming to dinner. My aunt wants to meet you."

Greg had glared at Gil at the mention of 'Cinderella,' but he forgot all about that when he heard the rest.

He looked at Gil as if for the first time. If Mrs. Crowley wanted to meet him, it meant that…

"You told her about me?"

"Of course," Gil said matter-of-factly. It was obvious that he didn't want to make a big deal out of it, but both knew that it was. At least, Greg did. Gil was making him part of the family -there was no bigger deal than that. But before he got too emotional, Gil intervened. "So," he said, all business again, "We'll stay at the party just long enough to do our bit at the opening ceremony, then we'll come and pick you up. Think a couple of hours will be enough?"

Greg ignored the faint sarcasm. It was true that sometimes he took to long to groom, but he could be fast, too.

"Two hours is ok," he nodded calmly. "But what about my shirt and my -"

"It's all taken care of. I raided your closet last night; I brought your white shirt, your black socks, your black shoes. Oh, and by the way," he said, taking a cellophane package from a pocket, "I got you your own bow tie."

"Ah, shit," Greg smiled. "That's gonna be tricky. It's easier to fold someone else's tie, you know." He took the tie and then watched as Grissom walked to the door.

Greg's lips parted. He wanted to say something romantic, something sweet, something that showed Gil how much all this meant to him.

But he didn't think of anything sweet or romantic.

"Hey, Gil?" Greg said, "Has Aunt Edith told you what's she gonna donate this year? 'Cause I really -REALLY- need a new Garson and Crowley lens for the -"

"That's not funny," Gil glared.

* * *

THE END 


	20. A DISTINGUISHED MAN

A Distinguished Man

Greg's mom was ecstatic. After years dating losers, Greg had finally found a good guy: his own boss. She was happy; Greg was happy... And then Grissom ruined it all.

* * *

"Wow," I whispered as I stepped into the balcony. Las Vegas looked wonderful at night. Leaning over the railing, Karen, my older sister suddenly spoke.

"Oh, I absolutely adore Gil Grissom!"

To hear her, one would think Gil Grissom himself had personally arranged for Las Vegas to look stunning just for us.

Behind her, May Darren, Karen's best friend, rolled her eyes in exasperation, then smiled at me in complicity. I didn't smile back, though the temptation to roll my eyes was strong. Karen had been telling us what a wonderful man Gil Grissom was for weeks now. Never mind that she had never laid eyes on the guy, or even talked to him over the phone; all she knew was what Greg had told her, and that was enough for her.

" –and he's a scientist," Karen went on, "An established Entomologist –one of the best in the country."

She was openly bragging now, and who could blame her? It wasn't every day that she got to boast about her only son's love life in front of May Darren.

Poor Karen.

Or should I say poor Greg instead? After all, he's been a pawn in the ongoing competition between his mother and May, whose only son Ken is Greg's age, too. From the moment the two women met, there's been an ongoing rivalry that shows no sign of waning. They've argued over whose boy is the better student, whose boy is the better looking, and who's the more successful of the two.

Fortunately, none of this affected the boys; they remained friends through it all. It helped that they were successful in markedly different ways: Greg shone in science; Kent preferred languages. It probably helped, too, that both of them were gay. From an early age, they realized they were lucky to have each other to turn to. In fact, when both boys announced they were gay, their mothers, rather than reacting with tears and denial like the boys feared, practically jumped with joy. First, because no woman would ever be good enough for their boys anyway, and second, because it looked like they'd found their match.

Unfortunately for the women, the boys weren't interested in each other that way. They were friends –period.

So, after a brief respite, the competition was on again. In time, Ken became a lawyer and Greg a DNA Analyst. They were both successful in their fields, but there was one area where Ken was the clear winner, much to Karen's chagrin: While Ken got involved with perfectly respectful members of society, (like straight-A students, and later doctors or lawyers), Greg dated losers. Well, not losers, per se. They all looked like perfectly normal guys to begin with; sure, they weren't lawyers or doctors, but at least they held jobs or promising scholarships. Then, a few months into the relationship, for reasons never fully understood, things started going downhill. Some lost their jobs, others lost their scholarships.

They _all_ ended up hanging out at Greg's place, eating his food, and watching ESPN in their underwear all day.

The Greg Sanders jinx we called it.

And oh, how May enjoyed it when she found out -and she always did. She'd smile at Karen in her condescending way, and sweetly ask, 'Tell me, Karen, how are Greg and his boyfriend doing these days?"

It's not a surprise that Karen would be overjoyed about Greg's new boyfriend, Gil Grissom. True, she initially balked at having a prospective son-in-law that was only about a decade younger than herself –and her son's boss, no less. But even that didn't matter much when she realized this guy was a professional; a respected member of society who'd never end up sponging off her son.

I was more cautious. Sure, I was impressed by the fact that after six months, Gil Grissom still had a job. Heck, just the fact that they'd been together six months meant a lot. No one had ever lasted this long, which meant that maybe -just maybe- Gil Grissom was immune to the Greg Sanders jinx. So, that was great.

But every time Karen said something new about Gil Grissom, I found myself wondering. I mean, an _Entomologist_? I'd never thought Greg would fall for a pale, puny guy holding a net. Greg preferred his guys big and burly; the kind of guy who likes sports and beer.

I couldn't imagine what he could see in a butterfly-catcher...

"HE'S OLD!" The shriek made us all jump. Papa Olaf. He was sitting in an armchair, nearly buried under a pile of blankets. We thought he was dozing, but he was not. He was smiling, pleased by our reaction.

His face was as wrinkled as a raisin, but that smile made him look like a naughty five-year-old boy.

If we had been alone, Karen would have given him a sharp retort. But with May there, she had to be gracious.

"He's older than Greg, yes," she said with dignity, "But he's not old. Not at all," she added as if we needed reassurance. "He's very respected in his field. Oh, and he's a successful criminalist, too. He's a very, very distinguished man,"

_Distinguished?_ 'Oh, God', I thought, 'what has Greg gotten himself into?' I knew my nephew; he didn't fall for distinguished men, old or young. He liked to have fun; he liked to party. This Gil Grissom had begun to sound like a stuffy old man; the kind who peppers his conversations with phrases in Latin, and smells of old books and mothballs. Someone who has sex with his clothes on and won't kiss his partner until he's gargled with a strong mouthwash.

I didn't want to think that Greg got involved with this guy only to give his mom a chance to rub her nose at May, (though if he did, he'd certainly succeeded: May did look a bit ruffled when hearing about this paragon of virtue that was Gil Grissom); but if he did, then it was time for me to put a stop to it.

After all, I was more like a sister than an aunt to him.

He'd listen to me.

--------

Greg dropped by later that day, and Karen literally ambushed him at the door. Even May couldn't hold back; she wanted to meet Gil Grissom; she wanted to look at him him, talk to him, maybe even poke at him to make sure he was a living person, not some figment from Karen's imagination.

Greg seemed pleased by their reaction. He smiled good-naturedly and answered their questions as best as he could, but he had some bad news.

"Grissom isn't in Vegas," he said, "He had to go to Chicago for a conference. But he's coming back the day after tomorrow," he added, "And you can see him today, if you want. He's gonna be on TV."

"Really?" My sister asked, her eyes as big as saucers, "He's going to be on the news?"

"Uh, no. He said he'd be at a baseball stadium for the opening ceremony. Baseball season starts today."

"Baseball season?"

Karen was frowning. Then, gradually, the frown turned to dismay. I knew what she was thinking; she was thinking of the loser boyfriends who used to hang out at Greg's place and watch baseball and football all day long. In her mind, a man who liked sports was a loser, and nothing would ever change her mind.

And it was clear that May was thinking the same.

She was smirking. "I thought you said he was a_ scientist_, Karen."

I jumped in. "So?" I retorted, "Can't a scientist like sports, too?"

"I suppose," May said, the smirk still in place.

Greg, probably remembering the ex-boyfriends too, quickly intervened.

"Baseball isn't just a sport to Gil," he said, "He says it's a beautiful, orderly game."

May was still skeptical. "But he's there to _watch_ the game, isn't he? I mean, what else would he be there for?"

"I don't know," Greg said thoughtfully, "He said it was a surprise."

"They probably asked him to give a speech," Karen said, obviously trying to be optimistic, "He lived in Chicago for a long period of time, didn't he? I am sure they consider him a distinguished citizen."

_Distinguished_. There was that word again. And I was confused; was Gil Grissom a distinguished scientist or a sports jerk?

----

"Hey," I whispered to Greg, "We need to talk. It's about this man, Grissom -"

"You're gonna like him," he said quickly.

"Forget about me; do _you_ like him?"

"Sure," he said. "He's smart, he's responsible... He's a great guy!"

"Yeah, but isn't he a little, I don't know... Boring?"

He frowned over this.

"He's a quiet guy," he said slowly. "I need a little quiet, now. I'm not a kid, anymore, you know." He smiled.

I wanted to argue a little further, but Papa Olaf interrupted us in a big way.

"The game's on!" he shouted, waving at the screen. He even made an effort to sit up. It wasn't every day that the poor old guy got to watch a game.

We all grabbed a seat and waited for Gil Grissom to appear. We waited and waited… And then waited some more. Sportscasters kept talking about the event as if there were lives at stake there. Yet the people sitting in the stadium didn't seem to mind the waiting. It was raining lightly, but they all looked like this was the happiest day of their lives.

And suddenly, Greg sat up.

"That's Gil," he said, pointing at a man wearing a raincoat and gravely waiting for the announcer to introduce him.

I studied him. He was handsome; not the weakling I'd pictured -not at all- though with the grey in his hair and the serious expression on his face, I could see that 'distinguished' was the only word that could describe him accurately.

'Stuffy,' could apply too.

'Oh, Greg', I thought with a sigh, 'What have you gotten yourself into?'

Meanwhile, May and Karen were smiling idiotically at the screen, clearly charmed by what they were seeing.

I glanced at the TV again. I'd missed the presentation, so I didn't exactly know what Gil Grissom was there for. But when the sportscaster finally stepped away from the microphone, it was clear that neither one of us was prepared for what was about to happen.

First, Grissom took off his raincoat and handed it to an attendant, thus revealing what he was wearing underneath: an authentic baseball shirt with his name stitched on the front. Then he picked the microphone, and then he -

He yelled at the crowd.

"GOOD EVENING CHICAGO!"

People in the stadium cheered.

"ARE WE GOING TO HAVE A GREAT SEASON?" The crowd cheered again but he wasn't satisfied with the response, so he posed the question again. This time there was a resounding 'YEAAAH!' that brought a wide smile to his lips.

"YEAH!!" Grissom screamed back. "WE'RE GOING TO KICK ASS THIS YEAR!" And those words drove people into a frenzy. Some stomped their feet on the ground; others shook their arms like demented birds; most of them threw their caps into the air.

And distinguished Gil Grissom was yelling along with them.

I gaped.

I glanced at the others. They were gaping too, all of them. Even Greg. Clearly, he wasn't expecting his.

My sister sat frozen in place until she couldn't hold back anymore.

"Oh, my God," she moaned.

And then, to top it all off, Gil Grissom started to sing.

Not the National anthem, though.

_Nelly Kelly loved baseball games,  
Knew the players, knew all their names,  
You could see her there ev'ry day,  
Shout "Hurray" when they'd play._

He was on-key most of the time, but the sight of this man singing this childish song and waving his free arm to keep time, was just too much for Karen.

"Oh, Greg," she sighed mournfully, clearly disappointed.

May merely smirked.

But Papa Olaf was enchanted.

"I used to sing that song!" he yelled delightedly, and then he joined in, "- s_hout "Hurray_ -"

There was at least one Gil Grissom fan in the room.

As for Greg, well, I was afraid to look. I didn't want to see him disappointed.

But when I looked again, it turned out he was grinning.

And then he started to sing, too.

_"Take me out to the ball game,  
Take me out with the crowd.  
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,  
I don't care if I never get back,  
Let me root, root, root for the home team,  
If they don't win it's a shame.  
For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,  
At the old ball game."_

* * *

The end... Check out The William Petersen Appreciation Page for a glimpse of WP singing 'Take me out to the ball game."


	21. LOSER

LOSER

Romance. The guys want to go on vacation. Unfortunately, they can't agree on where to go.

* * *

I picked a book and made myself comfortable on the couch. After a moment, I put my feet on the coffee table.

'This is nice,' I thought, taking a look around.

We were at his place that evening, enjoying a brief respite from the job. With piles of reading material at our disposal, and the combined aromas of chicken stew and coffee starting to waft in from the kitchen, we were up for a great time ahead indeed.

Contented, I stretched my legs, and accidentally touched his foot.

He looked up from his magazine and smiled. I smiled back. Then, with feet still touching lightly, we turned back to our reading.

At least, _I_ did. Out of the corner of my eye, I could tell he was still looking at me.

He cleared his throat.

"Hum. About our vacation -" he started tentatively.

'Uh, oh,' I thought. '_Here it comes_.'

Cautiously, I withdrew my foot.

"-I've been thinking," he added, letting that last word trail off.

Oh, I knew very well what he'd been thinking.

He hadn't been very subtle: Hints were dropped from the start, then deliberate comments were made about this place he was "hoping to see one day..." Then, just a couple of days ago, a brochure was casually left on my side of the bed.

And while there was nothing wrong with his plans, I liked mine better –as he very well knew. _I _hadn't been very subtle either. I'd dropped my own hints, made deliberate comments, and, yes, even brought some brochures, too.

He knew what I wanted, but he was confident he would make me change my mind. And who could blame him? He'd managed to do that several times before, after all.

----

I didn't really notice, till my colleagues pointed it out to me a couple of weeks ago.

First was Warrick, who seemed interested in the food I'd brought from the deli.

"Man, you're so whipped!" he said, smiling amusedly. "You've even started ordering the same food he does!"

I looked down at my tray. Yes, that was 'his' soup, I realized; it was also 'his' choice of bread and dessert.

"I like these," I said, failing to see what the problem was.

Warrick merely smiled and patted my back sympathetically.

Then, a couple of days later, Catherine took me aside for a chat.

"He's got you wrapped around his little finger," she said in mild disapproval. "Don't you know that a successful marriage is based on equality?"

"Equality," I repeated, and then frowned when I realized what she'd just said. "We're not married -"

She ignored the interruption.

"If you're not careful, you're gonna lose ground," she added, "And you don't want that, _believe me_."

"Ok," I said slowly, still not sure where all this was going to. "And you're telling me this because -"

"Because you've been yielding to his every whim," she said matter-of-factly.

"What, you've been keeping tabs on me?" I joked. But she was not even smiling. "Catherine, I'm not yielding to his every whim." She gave me a skeptical look. "Ok, maybe I do, sometimes. But only when his ideas are better than mine," I added defensively.

She merely crossed her arms. She didn't believe one word I was saying.

"It's not a big deal," I muttered.

"Yes, it is," she said. "Look," she added kindly, "I know what I'm talking about, ok? After all, who's been in more serious relationships; me or you?"

I opened my mouth, but she had a point there, and we both knew it.

"Go ahead," I said.

And she did.

That conversation was an eye-opener. I'd been giving in too often, I realized; even when my ideas were better than his. And he didn't even have to make an effort to convince me; all he had to do was _look_ at me in a certain way.

Pleading or seductive, those eyes of his could melt the hardest heart. Sure, he didn't use that trick too often, (and when he did, he was _very_ appreciative afterwards), but Catherine was right: I was losing ground.

It was around this time that the possibility of a trip first came up. We had a week off coming up, and both of us had definite ideas on what to do. My plans included going somewhere quiet -quiet and romantic; a place where we could talk, for a change.

His plans? Well, they were _different,_ to say the least.

-----

And now he was still looking expectantly at me.

I casually put my book down.

"I've been thinking about it, too," I said casually, "I'd like to go South."

He seemed confused.

"South?"

"Yeah. I showed you the brochures, remember? There's a great hotel there."

He frowned.

"But I thought -"

Oh, I knew what he thought. But I wasn't giving in this time. No matter what he said, or what he did –no matter that he was looking at me with eyes open wide in bewilderment, as if he truly couldn't believe I didn't like his plans better... Or that the bewilderment was gradually turning into heart-felt disappointment, 'cause he really wanted to visit this place and he wasn't going to see it. 'Cause he _knew;_ one look at me, and he knew I was dead serious this time.

'You win,' his eyes said just before they dropped in defeat.

He was giving in... And it wasn't the first time he did, I suddenly realized. He'd given in before -not as often as _I_ had, but still -

But I didn't much care about that. What really mattered was that _I'd won_.

Victory was mine...

Only now I didn't want it.

Not if it made him unhappy.

_Oh, boy. _

Warrick was right. I was whipped.

I sighed in mock exasperation.

"Oh, all right, Grissom," I said morosely. "We'll go to that amusement park, if you want."

He looked up, eyes twinkling.

"Are you serious?" he smiled, "Do you want to go?"

Ha, like he cared what _I_ wanted.

"Yeah," I nodded. "I want to."

"Thanks, Greg," he said. He picked the brochure he'd kept in the magazine he was pretending to browse, and started reading aloud. There were new rides, he said, and a couple of hotels to choose from. Finally, he happily announced that the park was only a two-hour drive from Chicago, one of his favorite places in the world.

A cold and windy place, as opposed to the warm beach I'd had in mind.

An amusement park instead of the tasty clubs I'd read about.

Damn.

But Grissom was happy. And his enthusiasm was so infectious, it wasn't long before I started discussing rides with him.

"I guess it'll be our chance to be kids together," I said, and I truly believed it.

---

Oh, I know Catherine will be disappointed. Warrick will probably laugh his ass off when he finds out.

But what the hell.

They're divorced, for God's sake -what do they know of true love?

* * *

THE END


	22. Doubts

Doubts

Spoiler: In 'Precious Metals,' Grissom tells Greg a CSI makes less money than a DNA expert. In 'The theory of everything' there's a cute scene with Gil, Greg and Doc Robbins (the sucker bet).

Romance.

* * *

Greg Sanders woke up with a start.

He blinked his eyes open, only to close them abruptly; sunlight was pouring in -not the soft, warm caress of the early morning sun, but the full glare that told him it was already past noon.

He groaned and turned his face away.

"Should have closed the blinds," he muttered. He always kept the blinds closed in his room; it was the only way he could sleep during the day -

But this wasn't his room.

Greg tentatively squinted in the window's direction. He supposed he could get up and close the blinds, but it seemed like too much of an effort. He was tired; exhausted, in fact. It made more sense to roll to a darker side of the bed -Grissom's side.

Greg watched Grissom with something close to envy. The older man was peacefully asleep; in fact, as far as Greg could tell, Gil hadn't moved since the last time he saw him, seconds before both passed out. Grissom was still lying on his stomach, with his face half-buried on the pillow.

On a closer look, however, Greg noticed some changes. Gil's hands, which had been desperately clutching the sheets, now lay open on either of the pillow; and while he was still flushed from his recent exertions, he wasn't breathless anymore; he looked serene, utterly relaxed –like someone who's all set out to spend the rest of the day in bed, Greg thought with a smile. Well, he felt just like that too; cool and comfortable, perfectly content to stay right where he was. Nothing could make him move –well, nothing except maybe the chance to get a bit closer to Gil. With this idea in mind, Greg dragged himself closer to Gil, careful not to disturb the sleeping man.

But his efforts were in vain; soon he noticed the lines around Gil's only visible eye crinkle –a sure sign that he was smiling.

"Hey," Greg whispered.

Gil lifted his head just enough to look at Greg through half-closed eyes.

"Hey," he mumbled, then he let his face fall back on the pillow. A moment later, he mumbled, "You ok?"

Greg began to nod, then stopped when he realized it was he who should be asking that question. He'd just remembered being a bit too rough on Gil earlier that morning. Gil didn't protest -in fact, he gave back as good as he got- but Greg was worried nonetheless. It was then that he noticed the faint purple smudges dotting Gil's forearm; four smudges to be precise, with a fifth one he couldn't see but knew was there. Five smudges –five bruises he could easily fit his fingers into, because he'd made them himself earlier on. He didn't have to look to know that there was a similar set on Gil's other arm.

It seemed hard to believe, even with the evidence in front of his eyes. He did remember feeling an urgent need to possess Gil, body and soul -something that just couldn't be done. But he'd obviously tried. He'd held Gil tightly in his arms; he'd forced his own rhythm on him. And he'd felt like a conqueror.

The memory was so exhilarating it sent shivers down his spine all over again, but he had mixed feelings about it now.

Greg reached out and touched a bruise with the tip of his finger.

"I think I went caveman last night," he said contritely.

Gil only chuckled.

Greg got a bit closer and laid a kiss on each of the smudges; then, for good measure, he dropped a kiss among the sweaty curls on the nape of Gil's neck.

"I love you," he whispered.

He pulled back to watch Gil's reaction.

Grissom didn't say anything, but then he didn't have to; the look in his eyes was eloquent enough. The phrase 'window of the soul' came to Greg's mind every time Gil looked at him like this: It truly revealed the depth of his feelings. It was thrilling, to be the object of that gaze, but sometimes it was overwhelming, too. Sometimes, like today, Greg found that he couldn't hold that gaze for long, and so he rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling.

"I like this," he said after a moment. He was going to say something else but a huge, lusty yawn got in the way. He made a big show of it, stretching his arms and legs at the same time. "Days like these make me glad I'm a guy," he said with satisfaction. "You know, lying in bed, doing nothing -" He glanced at Gil.

Grissom was more alert this time; he'd even folded a pillow under his head so he could have a better view of Greg.

"So," Gil said, "All you wanna do is lay back and stare at the ceiling."

"Yeah. Ok, maybe not just lay back and stare at the ceiling," Greg amended. "I have some ideas of er, _things_ we could do later. We have all day, right?"

"Right." Grissom was looking attentively at him now. "So, how long do you think you could stay in bed like this?"

"You mean with you? I'd stay a whole week," Greg said gallantly.

"Really?" Gil's eyes gleamed with mischief, "I bet you five dollars I can get you to get up in the next couple of minutes."

Greg rolled his eyes. "You'd have to pay me five-hundred to get me to move right now." Then he shot him a look of disapproval, "Why do you keep doing this?"

"Doing what?" Gil asked innocently.

"You know what," Greg retorted. "Placing bets. You've been at it for the last couple of days. Sucker bets," he added spitefully, "Designed to fool me into giving you my money -"

"So? You thwarted me every time."

"Only because Doc Robbins and Nick were there."

"You're being too modest, Greg. I only play this game with you because you're a deign adversary."

Greg glanced at Gil. He was gauging the older man's sincerity, when it suddenly occurred to him that Grissom was looking inordinately pleased with himself.

"You know, you've been looking kind of perky lately," Greg said suspiciously.

"I'm happy," Gil shrugged.

Greg smiled despite himself.

"Well, I'm happy too," he said, "But you don't see me playing tricks on you. I mean, you're the one with the big bucks here. Me, I'm just a CSI level III. A CSI level III who took a _pay-cut_ when he got this job -remember? A CSI level III who's still paying for the car he bought when he had a DNA Analyst's salary -"

"A CSI level III who insists on giving expensive gifts to his boyfriend," Gil muttered pointedly.

Greg shrugged.

"I like giving you things," he said easily. Then he looked away, and muttered. "He said 'boyfriend,'" and chuckled. He had a blast every time Grissom said the word.

Gil was still looking at him.

"You know," he said tentatively, "There might be a way for you to cut down expenses."

Greg shook his head. "I am not trading in my car."

"I'm not talking about trading in your car," Gil said patiently. He paused for a moment. "You could move in with me."

Greg snorted, sure that Gil was only joking. But when he glanced at Gil he didn't see the signature 'gotcha!' smile. There was no smile of any kind, in fact; Grissom was looking solemnly at him.

'Uh, oh,' Greg thought. He sat up slowly.

"Are you serious?"

"I am."

Greg was stunned. He didn't know what to say. Or, more correctly, he did know what to say but he didn't know how. He didn't want to say 'no' to Gil -not when he was looking at him like this, so open and hopeful.

"But you've always lived alone," he said.

Gil merely shrugged.

"I didn't have a boyfriend then."

Greg didn't scoff at the word this time. He didn't even notice it; he was too busy looking for excuses.

"I, hum, got lots of stuff -"

"I've got lots of space," Gil countered calmly.

Greg's lips parted a couple of times but nothing came out.

Finally, Grissom took pity on him.

"Think about it," he said casually. "Now, I said I could get you to get up. Want to take on the bet?"

Greg was momentarily thrown off by the sudden change of subject, but recovered quickly.

"I don't want to get up," he said firmly. "I don't even have to go to the bathroom. See that?" he said, pointing at an empty bottle of water on the side table. "I'm willing to pee into that if it's necessary."

"Oh, really. So, nothing will make you move -"

"Nothing."

"Not even a pint of chocolate ice cream?"

Greg faltered. "Chocolate -"

" -from that little store near the Strip," Gil finished. "I got one the other day. It's in the fridge right now."

Once again, Greg opened his mouth but no words came.

His will was definitely starting to waver.

'Damn,' he thought. He didn't want to lose the bet, not with Gil looking so smug and self-assured, but on the other hand... Why refuse a pint of ice cream that cost a lot more than five dollars?

"You win," he muttered in defeat. "I'll get up."

"Good."

"That wasn't fair," Greg muttered as he stumbled out of bed. He picked a t-shirt off the floor and started putting it on. He glanced at Gil, who was looking at him now, following his every move.

Greg shook his head.

"You did all this just to get to see me naked."

"It's a beautiful sight," Gil said placidly.

Greg snorted. He finished putting on the t-shirt, but he didn't make a turn to the door. Instead, he looked at Gil again, really looked.

'My 'boyfriend', he thought, and the word filled him with a sudden tenderness. He took a couple of steps back to the bed and reached out. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hanging in mid-air. He wanted to touch Gil, but he couldn't decide whether to start with the disheveled hair or the bushy beard; in the end, he gently rubbed Gil's nose with the back of his index finger.

Gil reached for his hand and held it, and this simple action somehow encouraged Greg to talk.

"I'd like to move in with you," he said quietly. There was no visible reaction from Gil –but then, he probably knew there was a 'but' coming up. And that was the thing with Grissom. It seemed like he always knew what you were going to say -sometimes even before you did.

It was freakish.

Greg cleared his throat.

"I just don't know if I'm ready for this -sharing a house, I mean. I'm still recovering from the years I spent living with my parents." It was meant as a joke, but hearing his own words made him wince. "That sounds like I'm ungrateful jerk, right?" But Grissom didn't say anything. Of course; Gil would never judge him. But this only made Greg want to explain all the more.

"I loved my parents," he said, "It's just… Living with them could be suffocating at times. And I know that living with you would not be the same," he added, just in case Gil tried to make a case for himself, but Gil didn't even make an attempt to speak; he simply waited.

This only made it more difficult for Greg to say the rest.

"It's just… This is your house." He glanced around, "These are your things. It's _your_ home. _Your_ rules." He looked at Grissom. "I need my own things."

Gil nodded slowly.

"I understand."

Greg hesitated; he still felt there was something more he should be saying but he didn't know exactly what.

"It's ok," Gil said, and he smiled reassuringly as he released Greg's hand. "And by the way, you don't have to eat the ice cream if you don't want to."

Greg snorted.

"Yeah, like I'm gonna go back to bed now that I know what's in the fridge." He turned to the door, but just as he was reaching for the doorknob, a sudden thought occurred to him. He looked back at Gil, who was lazily rearranging the bedcovers.

"Hey, Gil?" He waited until Gil looked up. "You knew what I was going to say, didn't you?"

Gil's eyebrows rose.

"What makes you think so?"

"Personal history," Greg retorted, unimpressed by the 'who, me?' look on Gil's face. "You always seem to know."

"Not always," Gil said gently.

"But you knew this time. You knew I'd say no."

Gil shrugged slightly.

"It was a possibility."

Greg narrowed his eyes.

"So what if I'd said yes?" he challenged, "What would you have done, then?"

Gil smiled faintly.

"Greg, I had a closet extension installed last month," he said.

Greg involuntarily glanced at the closet on the opposite side of the room. Gil had put up the extension so Greg had a place to put the clothes he kept leaving behind.

"Yeah?" Greg said now, "So?"

"I also added two cabinets in the kitchen," Gil said patiently.

'Well, yeah,' Greg thought. Gil snack fare tended to be the light, non-fattening kind, and Greg's tastes were just the opposite. After one too many complaints from Greg, they'd compromised: Greg would bring his own food, and Gil would provide the space. That they'd been dipping into each other's food stash lately was something they hadn't bothered to discuss yet.

"And it's not only the food," Gil added, "There are books and CD's and games -"

"Yeah, yeah," Greg interrupted. "You bought a couple of bookcases, I know." To be fair, the new bookcases were not just for the things he kept forgetting at Gil's place; they were also for the gifts he gave Gil. "So, what's your point?"

Gil didn't reply. He merely sat back and gave Greg a look –a look he often used at work; a look that meant it was up to Greg to put two and two together... Which he did, a couple of seconds later.

He gaped, then. He looked incredulously at Gil, who merely nodded. As always, he knew what was going on in Greg's mind.

"I already live here," Greg said at last, more for his own benefit that Gil's. Maybe saying it out loud would help; he still couldn't believe he'd been taking over Gil's space and never noticed it till now. More amazingly yet, Gil didn't resent it.

More importantly, he had not tried to change him.

"So…" Greg said in confusion, "If I'm already living here, why…?" Why ask him to move in, when he could just as easily let things go on undisturbed.

Gil shrugged slightly.

"To make it official, I guess." Then he smiled mischievously. "And if you move in, you'll have more money to buy me gifts."

"Ha, ha," Greg muttered, but he wasn't exactly amused. He didn't really know how to feel. The idea of living with Grissom appealed to him but it terrified him, too. It was too big a change. "Are you sure you really want to do this? I've got a temper -"

"I know," Gil said a bit wearily –or so it seemed to Greg.

"What do you mean, you _know_?" Greg asked testily.

Gil smiled.

"It means I know you have a temper, and I know you have lots of stuff. It means I really want to do this."

Greg stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what to say or what to do next.

"It's funny," he said at last. "I never thought being with you would be like this."

Gil eyed him curiously.

"What do you mean?"

"I thought it would be up to me to take every step while you followed reluctantly. I thought I'd have to coax you and talk you into doing things -And now it turns out you don't need me to."

Grissom considered this for a moment.

"Does it bother you?"

"Not really," Greg said slowly. "It's just... Weird."

They were silent for a moment.

Gil cleared his throat.

"Greg," he started. "Things don't have to be _my _way all the time. Or yours, for that matter."

Greg smiled at the veiled warning. And how typical of Gil to go straight to the heart of the matter: He knew Greg loved -needed- to be in control, and that giving in was not going to be easy. But there was one thing Greg had learned lately, and it was that yielding to Gil could be a lot of fun.

And then Gil said the words that clinched the matter for him.

"Things don't have to be _suffocating_."

Greg smiled.

"I'll think about it," he said, and there was real conviction behind those words this time.

* * *

THE END


	23. Forensic Cupid

Forensic Cupid

I watched 'Kiss, kiss, bye, bye' the other day and was struck by how handsome Greg looked in it. I started wondering if Grissom noticed too... and if he did, would somebody else know?

Spoiler: Kiss, kiss, bye, bye

* * *

Doctor Robbins took one last look at Lois O'Neil, famous chorus girl, notorious girlfriend, notable chronicler. Tomorrow, the press would add another name to her, but tonight, she was simply Lois O'Neil, case LV 135680. No matter what you called her, she still looked splendid; her clothes, her hair, her hands resting half-open by her side. Even the shot in her chest looked like an extravagant addition to her dress. To an untrained eye, she'd probably look like she was merely taking a nap before getting whisked to a party; to an expert, the rigidity of her fingers and the slackness of her jaw revealed the sad story: Lois was dead.

A few hours more, and she would begin to smell…

Robbins sighed. He looked up at the men standing by the door and motioned them in.

"She's ready," he said. The morgue assistants came in with a stretcher and a bag, but they didn't immediately set out to work. They were awed by the luxury of the room, and the sight of the woman lying on her deathbed.

"Go on," Robbins said, "Don't make her wait."

The men unfurled the white bag and set it next to her.

"Careful, if you please," Robbins said, though the warning was hardly necessary, and he knew it: his men were professionals. Besides, they were working under the boss' watchful eye, something that didn't happen every day, which meant they would take every precaution as they lifted Lois. But handling her was less difficult than they anticipated. Soon, they had her inside the bag.

"She made it easy on us," one of them said.

"Very easy, indeed," Robbins muttered. Murder was always messy. Very rarely did they find dead bodies lying peacefully like this, with their limbs nicely positioned and their clothes decorously draped around them. The word 'staged' had crossed Robbins' mind the minute he saw Lois' body, but he didn't voice his suspicions. In this job, off-handed comments had a nasty habit to come back and bite you in the ass. Better wait for the autopsy to be sure.

"Go ahead," he said once the body was put on the stretcher. "I'll be coming along in a minute. Oh, and remember," he added as the men turned to go, "You are not to discuss this case with anyone outside the lab. And kindly refrain from talking to the press." Another unnecessary warning, but one he always felt compelled to add, especially in cases involving famous people.

He glanced at the empty bed now. Save for the gory residue, it looked immaculate. Lois didn't lie down to sleep, he thought. She lay down to die.

Robbins almost picked his camera for one last shot, but in the end, he did not. It was one thing to take a picture of a dignified profile; taking a picture of a bloodied bed put you in a quite different level.

Shaking his head as if to clear it, he looked around for Grissom. CSIs had to take over the investigation now. There were samples to be taken from the mattress: blood, flesh and bone, not to mention a bullet that might be embedded in the mattress…

He saw Grissom, standing in a corner of the room. He and Greg Sanders had finished examining the rest of the room, and now they were talking in hushed tones, with Gil doing most of the talking. Finally, Greg nodded gravely.

"Right away, boss!" he said in a very good impression of Humprey Bogart. He smiled at his own joke, then added, "I'll take this to trace," he said, meaning the evidence bags he carried in his kit. "I'll call you as soon as I have some results." And then he was gone.

Robbins watched Grissom during this exchange. The CSI Supervisor followed Greg's every move with his eyes, a slight smile on his lips; but once Greg disappeared from view, the smile faded and he shrugged, a little resignedly. 'Ah, well,' the gesture seemed to say, and to Robbins, it was almost as if Gil had spoken the words out loud.

Robbins' interest was piqued, and he kept his gaze on Gil, who, still glancing at the empty door, slowly put on a new pair of gloves. Gil was clearly lost in thought for a moment, then he finally snapped out of it and turned in the bed's direction, only to find, to his dismay, that Robbins was still there.

He didn't hesitate for long.

"So," he said casually, "Anything you can tell me?"

Robbins smiled.

"Oh, I can tell you lots of things," he said placidly. "You, my friend, are in love."

To his credit, Gil didn't miss a beat.

"I mean, about the case," he said dryly.

"Which one?" Robbins replied, enjoying himself immensely, "If it's the one about the lonely CSI Supervisor who seems to come to life whenever he talks to a certain colleague, then I can tell you plenty." He paused for a moment, giving Gil a chance to put up a denial. He was glad when Gil didn't. "However," he said gently, "I'm only going to say this: Go for it."

Grissom stared at him in disbelief. He hesitated, then slowly shook his head.

"I can't do that."

"Are you sure?" Robbins said, "What if I told you he has a crush on you?"

Gil's incredulity only grew.

"What," Robbins said, "You haven't noticed?"

"Who _are_ you?" Gil said, sincerely puzzled. "It isn't like you to pry into people's personal lives."

Gil was right. It wasn't.

"Oh, I don't know," Robbins sighed. "Maybe it's all those stories David keeps telling me about his fiancée. He's happier than I've ever seen him. And that's my point: I'd never seen you like this."

"Like this?"

"Happy," Robbins said. "You're _happy_, and for the first time it isn't because you found a head in a bucket, or the final clue in a case. You like this man. And, as I have just mentioned, he likes you too. But you've already noticed; otherwise you would have told me I was wrong."

Grissom didn't reply. He looked down, clearly uncomfortable by the conversation.

Robbins decided not to push his luck. He'd already said enough for one night.

"Anyway," he said, reaching for his crutches, "I hope you do something about it. Keep me posted, will you?" He tested his hold on the crutches, then confidently walked to the door. He slowed down, however, and just before he reached the door, he looked at Gil. "You know," he said slowly, "My wife has started reading romance stories. After 20 years of marriage, you'd think she'd be settling for a quiet life, but no; she says it's never late to start over. Luckily, she decided to start over with me. My point is, it's never late, Gil."

He didn't wait for a response.

He only hoped his friend would follow his advice.

* * *

THE END


End file.
